


A Handmaiden's Tale

by CptEmie



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Awkward Conversations, Awkwardness, Best Friends, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Family, Fluff, Friends as Family, Hurt/Comfort, Invisible Person POV, Matchmaking, Miscarriage, Repairing Broken Relationships, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, Stress Baking, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 22:34:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6060649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CptEmie/pseuds/CptEmie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elinor Sergeant genuinely loves her job as the Inquisitor's lady in waiting. Evie Trevelyan is as kind and sweet a woman as was ever born, and her relationship with her Commander is just starting to blossom. Elinor does her best to focus on her work and live vicariously through the Inquisitor and the Commander, but thoughts of her own old beaux keep creeping back into her head.<br/>She never even considered that he might show up at Skyhold.</p><p> </p><p>Immense special thanks to xStephyG for cooperating with me on this project. Evie Trevelyan belongs entirely to her, and Ellie has been crafted to be a part of Evie's canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Commander

            “Your Worship?” Elinor tipped her head over the railing of the Inquisitor’s quarters carefully. Her Worship startled easily, and she’d been sleeping so restlessly lately that the maid hated to wake her harshly.

            “I’m up, Elinor.” Evie Trevelyan was still lying in bed, curled up on her side so she faced away from the door. Presumably, she was reading.

            “Good morning, your Worship.” Elinor padded up the rest of the staircase, walking the breakfast tray over to her Worship’s bedside table before heading for the wardrobe to retrieve the clothes she’d left to air the night before.

            “G’mornin’,” she murmured back, and Elinor heard the sound of a book shutting followed by the clink of tea things. The only thing her Worship liked more than reading was tea. Or perhaps, a pot of tea whilst reading. “Is it Orlesians or Antivans today, Elinor?”

            “Orlesians, your Worship. There’s a luncheon with the Comte de Bouvier – the real one – and supper with the Comte and Lady Dever.”

            “Lady Dever is still here?” The Inquisitor sat up in bed with her hands wrapped around her favourite overlarge tea cup.

            “She leaves tomorrow morning, your Worship.” Elinor emerged from behind the dressing panels with a long lilac coloured dress draped over both of her arms. It had light, silvery lace stitched around the upper arms, and its embellishments flowed beautifully down to create swirling patterns akin to small vines of flowers. Best of all, the gown was one of the least constricting that her Worship owned, and Lady Trevelyan had a deeply ingrained dislike for confinement of any kind.

            “Elinor…” The Inquisitor’s voice was a little thick, whether from sleep or some kind of pleasure, she couldn’t be sure. “Elinor, are these your cheese scones?”

            Ah, pleasure, then. “Yes, your Worship.” Elinor couldn’t help a small smile. “You said you had been missing them, and the kitchens had some ham left from dinner last night. They make a good pairing.”

            “They absolutely do.” The Inquisitor was grinning at her maid, breakfast tray laid gratefully over her lap while she assembled a little sandwich out of a scone and some of the meat. “I hope you made a large batch. The Commander will hound me for days if he finds out you made scones and he didn’t get any.”

            “I sent some up on his tray this morning, my lady.”

            “You’re an angel.” Lady Trevelyan was munching happily away now, which was the exact image that Elinor liked to see in the morning. She had slept and she was eating, and she wasn’t leaning over her desk frowning at paperwork – all signs pointed towards a good day for both of them.

            Elinor climbed up into the balcony of the Inquisitor’s chambers, listening to the Inquisitor happily chat away about the novel that Lord Pavus had found for her in Skyhold’s library. The young maid picked through a large assortment of jewelry and shoes (Sister Nightingale seemed to find every excuse to acquire shoes for her Worship) until she had found something suitable, and then climbed back down again.

            Before long the Inquisitor was out of bed and allowing herself to be dressed (a concept still foreign to her). She was looking at herself in the full length mirror as Elinor worked, carefully buttoning up the back of the dress and smoothing out the silky material. Elinor pulled the Inquisitor’s beautiful, scarlet red hair out of her eyes and worked at pinning a small crown of little silver flowers into her hair. When she was done, she clasped a matching necklace around the Inquisitor’s throat.

            “Elinor,” her Worship lifted one hand to the necklace. “Is today special? You’ve dressed me like an ancient Ferelden princess.”

            Elinor blushed a little, dropping her head to her shoulders with a small laugh. “The Commander asked to spend some time with you this afternoon. He was quite discreet about it, of course; but all things considered, I thought something feminine might suit the mood.”

            “The Commander?” Lady Trevelyan wheeled about to look her maid in the eye (it didn’t take much, as they were both rather short women). “Did he say why?”

            Elinor knew all too well about their budding romance (Maker, it had started in Haven, she’d have been blind not to notice), but she simply smiled. “He seemed keen to speak with you. He asked if you might meet him in the garden for chess after your luncheon.”

            Lady Evie Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste and leader of the Inquisitor, flushed deep red. “Thank you. I—I’ll be sure to do that.” The Inquisitor hummed happily as she assessed herself in the mirror one more time. “What are you up to today?”

            This was her Worship’s favourite tactic. When she was embarrassed for any reason, she would immediately change the subject to talk about the other person. Elinor had seen her do it a hundred times or more, but only smiled. The thing about Lady Trevelyan was that she actually wanted to know the answer. If she asked you about your health, she wanted an honest answer. If she asked you your plans for the day or week to come, she truly wanted to know so that she could help in any way possible. Lady Inquisitor Trevelyan was a remarkable sort of woman, but she never believed it when she was reminded of it.

            “There’s things to mend, of course, and an army of concerns from the kitchen about whether or not you’re eating and what you’re eating, but don’t concern yourself with any of that, Your Worship. Besides which, you’ve been in Skyhold a week now, so I thought I’d take your Forder out for a pass around the valley during your time with the Commander.”

            “That sounds like a lovely afternoon,” the Inquisitor took one last, long sip of tea before putting out her hands with a shrug. “Am I presentable?”

            “You look lovely, your Worship,” Elinor gave her mistress an honest smile. “But you’ll be late if you tarry any longer. And I don’t fancy explaining to Lady Montilyet why I didn’t have you ready in time.”

            Once the Inquisitor was safely delivered to the War Room and the cooks were satisfied that she was taken care of properly, Elinor was free to have her own breakfast and start the day’s chores. Her quarters were small and tidy, on the ground floor below the stairs that led up to her Worship’s chambers. Because of that, they were always warm and private – not like some of the other servants who shared rooms or were quartered near the soldiers. Elinor had the most coveted job for any of the domestic staff in Skyhold, and she was still puzzled as to how she had ever managed it.

            She’d never served in a great house or palace, never dressed a duchess or a princess. She was a seamstress’s daughter before training to become a domestic, a move that had meant leaving her adoptive family in South Reach to move to Redcliffe, where she learned from a former housekeeper in the shadow of Redcliffe Castle. When the Inquisition had come through the farms looking to recruit Master Dennet, Elinor had left her studies and gone to Haven with the horses.

            She was one of the only “trained” domestic servants in Haven at that time, tending to Sister Nightingale and Lady Montilyet’s wardrobes and making sure that the disgruntled Commander ate his dinner. Sister Nightingale had always been kind to her, and traded her stories of her travels with the Hero of Ferelden for her services as a seamstress. Lady Montilyet left her small gifts of thank you whenever she could (the most treasured of which was a small golden locket that she’d sent to Antiva City for), and the Commander turned out to be an invaluable source of conversation when he was feeling well enough to be sociable. He talked mostly of nothing at all, but she soon learned how easy it was to point him towards the direction of food. It seemed to be his largest vice – though he rarely remembered to feed himself. Of late, he had even started joining her in the kitchens on nights when she did her baking. He did the kneading that he insisted she not struggle over (though she had been making bread since she was old enough to reach the table) and busied himself moving things in and out of the oven “so you don’t burn yourself”, he always said: Elinor knew very well it was because he wanted to be helpful, but she just smiled and thanked him for being considerate. In the beginning, though, she’d had to go so far as to sit with him to make him eat.

            It had become clear, very shortly after her arrival in Haven, that the Herald of Andraste was going to need managing. Lady Trevelyan was a mage, unused to having so many obligations and now facing an entirely new set of rules to follow. She hadn’t ever had a lady’s maid (she could barely remember her nanny), and doubted very much that she would ever need one. But Lady Montilyet and Sister Nightingale had insisted, and even the Commander had agreed that it was a good idea. So Elinor had been at the Herald’s side ever since, whispering forgotten names of nobles in her ear just before they walked up the dais, or quickly stitching up a torn bit of dress from a too-enthusiastic romp across the battlements. The Inquisitor was a kind woman, with mostly kind friends (Madame de Fer still terrified Elinor, but she attributed that to a firm sense of self-preservation), and she was grateful for her position.

            She’d stayed up well past any sort of decent hour last night in order to have time in the kitchens, and a day of mending and riding sounded like a positive luxury. The small fire in the hearth in front of her kept her spirits up, and the tunic in her lap kept her hands busy, and she allowed her mind to wander. It would be a lovely thing if the Commander actually found the nerve to tell the Inquisitor that he fancied her, or even vice versa. She’d heard some of the other maids trading their own fancies, and a few of the soldiers remarking about her Worship’s undeniable beauty, and it would serve them all right if they were quickly shut up by the perfect pair of them, strolling around the grounds arm in arm. The thought gave her great satisfaction, in the way an elder sister might feel taking care of a younger. Elinor felt very close to them both, although she’d only been their maid, and had found it easy to be pleased with their pleasure. And that, she was told, was the mark of a devoted servant.

            She’d been busy lately, with her Worship at Skyhold, and hadn’t had time for as much baking as she usually did. When the Inquisitor traveled, Elinor’s chores were much lighter and she was free to spend a little more leisure time on her own endeavors. She had lately finished sewing together a bundle of blankets for the children of the pilgrims in the valley below – bringing together patches of discarded cloth from all over the castle to help keep away the mountain cold that so often made the children sick. Since then she’d gone back to baking, turning out dozens of cookies in a single night or batches of scones on another. Once she’d even baked three cakes at the same time, keeping her hands busy as she hummed her way around kitchen.

            Last night’s decision to make scones was a blessing. It cleared her mind, which she had desperately needed. The last week or so had brought back a particular train of thought that made getting her work done much harder and her concentration near impossible. The baking had pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind.

            But now she was sitting in the warmth of her quarters with a mindless task in hand, and they were back at full force. It was ridiculous, the way the thought of curly hair brought a smile to her lips. Stupid the way the dimples that widened his broad smile and his golden eyes made her insides knot up. And worse still that she allowed herself to think about it at all – that she let herself think about a situation that was well past saving. Elinor needed to snap out of it right now. _Right. Now_.

            She made it through luncheon only imaging his eyes in her mind two or three times more, and managed to push them out of her thoughts just long enough to put on a respectable pair of leather trousers and a tunic for riding after the Inquisitor had gone off to the gardens.

            But the ride didn’t do anything to soothe her, either. She was left to go back to her quarters to change back into her uniform, and then she was off to ready her Worship’s fire for after supper.

            At supper, Elinor stood silently against the back wall with the Comte’s valet and Lady Dever’s lady in waiting, listening to the two Orlesians whisper back and forth about this thing or that they’d seen during their stay. Elinor always listened. It was just as important to know what the servants of their guests thought of Skyhold as the guests themselves, and it was essential to know if any untoward rumours needed to be stamped out before said guests left for home.

            Tonight was harmless enough: both servants were sighing in admiration of Lord Pavus and his inherent elegance. How fine his clothing was and how exquisite his taste in wine. How charming his manners and how clever his tongue was in conversation. A quip from the maid about how quick his tongue might be elsewhere. A small chuckle from the valet who assured her that she would never know. Simple enough gossip – none of it incorrect – nothing that needed to be reported to Lady Montilyet. So Elinor simply relaxed against the wall and returned the Inquisitor’s small smile when her Worship caught her eye from across the room.

            Suppers with nobility took hours, Elinor knew. She stood quietly against the west wall of the main hall until the latest hours of the night, and allowed herself absolutely no sign of relief when the Inquisitor finally pushed away from the table and said her goodnights. She followed Lady Trevelyan out of the main hall like an invisible shadow, securing the door to the stairwell behind them and following her up the long stairs to the chambers above.

            Lady Trevelyan had already thrown herself backward onto her bed by the time Elinor joined her at the top of the stairs.

            “Nobles talk too much,” she groaned, pulling pins haphazardly out of her hair to let the circlet free.

            “I might remind your Worship that you are also, in fact, nobility.” Elinor picked up the circlet and hair pins as she passed by, setting them down on the top of the nearby wardrobe.

            “Yes, but I wasn’t _raised_ like it,” Lady Trevelyan pointed out. “In the Circle, we were all just mages.”

            “You rarely speak well of the Circle, my lady,” Elinor helped her back to her feet. “Was the day so trying as to make it a happy memory by comparison?”

            “I never said I liked it,” the Inquisitor stood still while the long trail of buttons at her back started to fall away under Elinor’s quick fingers. “I can’t say I was ever fond of the mountain of rules, or of constantly being watched by templars, but I had time to read – you know I like to read – and my teachers were kind enough, I suppose.” She held up one small, elegant hand and wriggled her fingers just enough to summon wisps of magic to their tips. “I learned, and I learned well. It seems like all nobles were ever taught was how to talk in circles and suck up to whoever in the room has the most power or money.” She sighed, closing her hand around the wisps and willing them back down under her fingertips (a feat that never ceased to amaze Elinor) and then she looked over her shoulder in the mirror to properly make eye contact with her maid. “How was your ride, then? Did you stop in the village?”

            “I did, my lady. It was a fine day for a ride.” And that was true enough. If she thought about today’s free time any longer she’d – no, there they were, the eyes she was never truly capable of banishing from her mind. “Did you enjoy your afternoon with the Commander?”

            Her Worship shrugged out of her gown, stepping deftly over the skirt to stand behind her dressing panel where the overlong tunic she wore as sleeping clothes was hanging from that morning. She seemed to be humming to herself a little, choosing her words carefully. When she peaked her head out of the side of the panels, she was grinning from ear to ear. “He kissed me.”

            “Oh thank the _Maker_ ,” the words were out of her mouth instantly, and Elinor clapped a hand over her lips in embarrassment.

            “I think so, too,” the Inquisitor agreed. “We got interrupted – you know Jim, Cullen’s messenger – but everything went alright, I think. I hope.”

            “Just Cullen now?” Elinor raised one eyebrow teasingly. “Not the Commander?”

            Lady Trevelyan laughed at that, and tugged at her hair to free it of the little bumps that the pins had left behind. “I still can’t fathom why you insist on calling me by titles, Elinor, I think it’s okay if I start calling Cullen by his first name.”

            “I call you by your titles, your Worship,” Elinor indicated that the Inquisitor should sit in her desk chair so she could brush her hair. “Because you are a woman of great status. Possibly the most powerful woman in all of Thedas, and I am your maid. And before you protest, I’ll remind you that I love my job, and I am particularly proud to serve you, my lady, so please do not feel that you need to temper our relationship at all by insisting that domestic work isn’t good enough.” The conversation had been had before, but it would inevitably be repeated. “It’s a perfectly respectable position for the daughter of a seamstress, and I like to think that I’ve learned it well.”

            “You’re a gift from the Maker, Elinor,” Lady Trevelyan assured her. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t wish you’d call me Evie.”

            “I couldn’t, your Worship, it wouldn’t be right.”

            “All right, how about this.” the Inquisitor tipped her head slightly to try to look over her shoulder at the woman with her hands curled through her hair. “When we’re here – just you and me – will you call me Evie? If it sounds silly to you, I apologize, but we’ve been together like this more than six months now, and I hate that I can’t ever tell if you even like being here.”

            “I promise you, your Worship, I very much like being here.”

            “Evie,” she corrected; a touch of hope on the edge of the word. “For the love of Andraste, you know all about me. You even know how many sugars I like in my tea. You’re the only person I’ve told about Cullen. And I’m not sure I even know your favourite colour.”

            “I’m happy to tell you anything you like, your—” Elinor stopped herself with a small sigh. “Evie.”

            Her Worship’s hair was brushed out neatly, and she sat sideways in her chair now, looking up at Elinor with her chin perched on one hand. “Alright. Your favourite colour, then? I want to say it’s orange, but I’m sure I’m wrong.”

            Her maid chuffed a small laugh. “You’re not wrong, entirely. If pressed, I would say I like the colour of sunrise. So that includes orange.”

            “Sunrise?” the Inquisitor smiled at that. “That’s quite an answer.” She drew her other hand up under her chin. “May I ask another?”

            “Of course.”

            “I’m curious,” the Inquisitor eyed her shrewdly. “What you think of my friends. I admit, I’ve always wanted to know what you thought of them.”

            “I’m not sure I could say,” Elinor’s mind reeled. This was not the sort of question she was expecting. “I would hate to overstep my bounds.”

            “If it’s too personal, I’m sorry. I was curious.”

            “I’m not sure I know any of them well enough to be able to say.” She was back pedaling as fast as she could. Of course she knew them. Everyone at Skyhold knew who the Inquisitor’s inner circle was. And considering her position, she’d interacted with every one of them dozens of times.

            “I can tell you that they all like you very well, if that helps any.”

            Elinor felt her heart catch in her throat. All? Had they _all_ spoken about her? They had always been kind, of course, but the thought that they had _all_ mentioned to the Inquisitor their thoughts about her? That was almost too much.

            “Mmhmm,” her Worship sat back in her chair. “Solas told me once that you asked him about the Fade so often while we were still at Haven, that he’d been truly impressed to find a non-mage so curious about it.”

            “Yes, I remember that.” She’d felt like an idiot when she’d realized how often she’d gone to see him, sitting outside the mage’s cabin with wide eyes, asking desperately for information about the world of her dreams that she’d never quite understood.

            “And Dorian thinks you’re absolutely darling, and he doesn’t hand out compliments lightly.”

            “Darling?” It was an odd thing to say, at least to Elinor. She’d never thought of herself as particularly endearing or sweet, or even attractive, like the other women she’d heard called ‘darling’.

            “He said you had the most perfect manners he’d ever seen.” The Inquisitor laughed at that. “And apparently you blush when you ask the librarian for new books to read.”

            “Do I?” Oh Maker, how humiliating.

            “So don’t worry about them. They adore you.”

_Adore_. What a strong word. Too strong, to be sure. “I’m glad to hear it, my lady.” That earned her a frown from the Inquisitor. “Evie,” she corrected herself. “I’ve never had anything but generous behavior from any of them.” Generous was the word Madame de Fer would have used to describe her constant critiques of Elinor’s posture, manners, and wardrobe, so it seemed less like a lie than saying ‘pleasant’.

            “Don’t sound so surprised,” the Inquisitor pressed a little squeeze to Elinor’s hand. “I can’t imagine anyone thinking anything less of you. Maker knows Josie and Leliana can’t say enough good things about you. And Cullen absolutely loves you.”

            The Commander. He wouldn’t love her if he knew more about her. If he had any idea about the thoughts that swallowed her days and haunted her dreams.

             “Elinor?” the Inquisitor’s head was tipped in concern.

            “I apologize,” Elinor snapped back to attention. “I must be more tired than I thought.” She made straight for the wardrobe where she’d laid the Inquisitor’s hair piece and necklace earlier and scooped them up, stepping toward the ladder to the loft.

            “You were thinking about something,” the younger woman observed. And then Elinor heard a small giggle, and amusement tingeing the Inquisitor’s voice. “Someone?”

            “I assure you, it was nothing so interesting.” Maker, _please_ let the Inquisitor believe her.

            Her Worship gave her a stern eye when she came down from the loft, but simply twisted her lips in a little quirk. “I refuse to believe that you don’t have someone, but I won’t push it for tonight.”

            “Is there anything else?” Elinor was desperate for this conversation to be over. She could feel the memory of breath on her neck like the Fade invading her daydreams, and she needed to be alone for a while to deal with it.

            Thankfully, she was dismissed, and she shut herself up in her quarters with alarming speed.


	2. The Warden

            The next day was all business. There were meetings to attend and missions to schedule, and that meant waiting outside a lot of doors to usher the Inquisitor from one place to the next. Evie Trevelyan was hardly ever on time without someone else to help her along. The Inquisitor’s only social obligation was supper with the Comte that night, and so Elinor had taken a simple dress out of her Worship’s wardrobe to air while the Inquisitor had merrily chatted away about her time with the Commander during her breakfast.

            And truly Elinor was glad they were happy. It wasn’t so much to ask, for two of the hardest working people she knew to have a reason to smile during the day.

            During the afternoon’s war council meeting (which would last hours, the way they had made it sound), Elinor retired to the Inquisitor’s quarters to lay out jewelry to match the dress and to build the fire her Worship would inevitably need that night. It was getting colder on the mountain, and the nights were getting longer. She found, however, that she was lamentably short of firewood.

            Thankful that today was a meeting day and she was already in boots, leggings, and a belted tunic, she made her way down to the lower courtyard to cut firewood. If the head housekeeper caught her she’d get a lecture about being out of uniform and doing someone else’s work, but the work kept her mind clear and wielding an axe was no time for a dress.

            She was halfway through a week’s worth of cut wood when a voice interrupted her.

            “She chops wood, too?” The Warden’s low laugh cut through her rhythm. “Is there anything you don’t do, miss?”

            “I’m sure there’s something, ser, but I can’t think of it at the moment.” She swung the axe again, letting it sit in the stump in front of her.

            “Let me do that, lass, there’s no reason for you to hurt yourself.” He reached for the axe and offered her a small smile, scooping up another log in his free hand.

            “I assure you, ser, I’ve been chopping wood since I was strong enough to lift the axe. I’ve plenty of practice.” At home, on the farm, and sometimes with long, strong arms around her.

            “It’s no work for a lady,” the Warden insisted.

            “I think you’ll find I’m no lady, ser.”

He was several inches taller than her and looking down to meet her eyes – which she could barely hold for the immense impropriety of the thing. “Ladies aren’t made by titles; they’re made by virtues and courage.” He told her firmly. “I’ve seen high-born women strike at dogs, and I’ve seen farm girls make clothing for orphans. Ladies are made by deeds, not by bloodlines.”

            Every drop of blood in Elinor’s body was creeping up her cheeks. She must be beet red and worsening, with his eyes boring into her like that. If her mother could see her now – meeting the eyes of a man ten times her consequence – she would be lectured for a week about not knowing her place. “I’ll try to remember that, ser.” She dropped her eyes to the dirt, searching the ground for some sort of rock or patch of grass to keep her attention.

            “How much more do you need cut?” He asked, suddenly taking a large step away from her.

            “I’ve plenty,” she said quickly. “There’s still a bundle in the Inquisitor’s chambers. This is plenty.” Maker forbid he would offer again to do any of her work for her. She wouldn’t stand for someone else doing what she was perfectly capable of. She piled up the wood and went on her way quickly, knowing full well she would have to come back later for the rest of it, but not wanting to expose herself to more awkward conversation.

            She was still huffing and puffing over it when she settled herself against the wall outside the war room, letting the familiar sound of arguing from within lull her back into a sense of normality. It wasn’t full shouting, or too heated, it was just regular arguing – the lady Ambassador and the Commander’s voices above the others, as usual – and that meant that her Worship would be hungry and tired when everything was over. Today was a day when afternoon tea would be mandatory, it seemed.

            While she was making the mental note to raid the pantry for a slice of her Worship’s favourite orange cake, she watched the door of the war room fling open to let the advisors out. The Inquisitor and the Commander walked out together, trying not to smile, and Elinor ducked in line behind them without a word. She did her best not to listen to anything that was being said, but she didn’t have to try terribly hard because the Commander was whispering so conspiratorially that she almost didn’t even notice his mouth moving.

            In the main hall, they almost walked right into a group of her Worship’s companions at the nearest table. They were seated around an enormous tea service and had even had a scullery maid bring them a board of cheese and warm bread to go with the small cakes that Solas and Lord Pavus liked so much.

“Darling, come sit,” Lord Pavus waved the Inquisitor towards the seat next to him and she followed the instruction happily. “Commander, care to join us?”

            As the only seat left at the table was next to her Worship, he smiled amiably and nodded, responding that he had time enough for a snack. That left an hour or so of standing at the nearest wall for Elinor, and she backed dutifully against the stone to stand by in case she was needed.

            “Elinor, come sit,” the Inquisitor’s voice was loud and clear.

            Red crept back up her cheeks and she shook her head vehemently. “I couldn’t, your Worship. Thank you.”

            “You certainly can,” Lord Pavus regarded her sternly. “Even you need a break, Elinor.”

            “I’d say she needs more of a break than any of us.” Warden Blackwall was sitting with them, his tea cup looking comically small in his large, calloused hand. “You know, my lady, that she was out chopping wood earlier? Never in my life have I seen a lady’s maid chopping wood.”

            “Elinor,” the Inquisitor’s voice was a little stern, but so full of warmth that it sounded like laughing. “Please, come and sit with us. Didn’t you say yesterday that you barely knew any of my friends? We could fix some of that.”

            A quick survey of the table reminded everyone that there wasn’t a free seat, and Messere Solas and Master Tethras – who had been sitting next to each other – parted easily to provide room.

            Elinor swallowed the lump in her throat and sat down, cautiously situating herself so that she wasn’t touching either of the men, and carefully made no noise when the elven apostate to her left poured her a generous cup of tea. “Relax,” she saw the Inquisitor mouth at her, before she smiled and glanced over at the Commander.

            Sitting at tea was agony. Beautiful, anxious agony. Master Tethras made every effort to make conversation with her when she had been quiet for too long, and Lord Pavus had asked her several questions about her family to help her feel included. Elinor kept her answers to a minimum, but everyone already seemed to know her mother’s work and mostly turned the conversation to her childhood instead. They were entirely too kind, and Elinor was inclined to think that she had even done well keeping the blush from her cheeks and her voice even.

            It wasn’t until she was dressing the Inquisitor for dinner that she even knew anything had been amiss.

            “Did you enjoy having tea with us?” The Inquisitor asked, wriggling her shoulders uncomfortably as Elinor laced up the corset of her dress.

            “Yes, my lady, thank you.” Maker, please don’t ask me anymore.

            “Dorian is perfectly scandalized for not thinking to ask you sooner. He wanted me to apologize for him.”

            “That’s very kind of him.”

            Lady Trevelyan eyed her sweetly in the mirror. “And I haven’t heard Blackwall laugh that much since Varric got himself stuck in a fennec hole.”

            It wasn’t possible for Elinor to blush more that day, she was sure of it. If it happened one more time, her cheeks would be permanently stained. She focused her eyes on the laces in front of her and determinedly said nothing at all.

            “I knew it!” The Inquisitor crowed, whirling around so fast that Elinor lost her hold on the back of her dress. “You fancy him, don’t you? Maker, I knew it. I’ve never seen you smile like that. Not in the whole time I’ve known you.” She was grinning from ear to ear, face lit up like an excited schoolgirl. “Oh, Elinor, that’s just the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. You’d be wonderful together.”

            Elinor tried to swallow, her eyes as wide as saucers, her throat dry as a desert, and she shoved her shaking hands behind her back. “I don’t know what you mean, my lady.” She wished she could turn inside herself – let her skin swallow her up so she didn’t have to be here anymore. How could the Inquisitor possibly think she would entertain such inappropriate thoughts? It was hard enough having any thoughts at all with that pair of golden eyes in the back of her head.

            “Andraste’s flame, you’re a terrible liar,” the Inquisitor was absolutely giggling. “I’ll have to come up with some new reasons to send you to the barn, now.”

            “Oh, please don’t do that,” the words flew out of her mouth. “I wouldn’t want to cause any kind of…I don’t know…please, it’s not necessary.” She grasped for the dress’s laces again and tugged gently. “I wouldn’t want you to go out of your way for something trivial.”

            “It’s not out of my way,” the Inquisitor insisted.

            Elinor sighed rather more loudly than was probably polite as she tied off the laces of her Worship’s dress. “I wish you wouldn’t, my lady. Please.”

            Evie quirked her head at her maid and studied her for a moment. There was nothing but sincerity there, nothing but concern and asking. “Alright,” she nodded her head. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”


	3. The Letter

            The Inquisitor left for the Western Approach a few days later, taking her lively group of companions with her. They was gone a fortnight, leaving Elinor to tend the Inquisitor’s garden, stitch up her torn tunics, and scrub her boots, baking when she had the time and actually managing to finish the novel that she’d borrowed from the library.

            The day before the Inquisitor was due to return, Elinor found herself accompanied by the Commander in the kitchens while she finished an orange cake and a batch of chocolate biscuits. The Commander munched absent-mindedly on an end of bread from dinner, saying something about how dreary food had been when he’d joined the templars as a boy and Elinor was nodding politely while she basted the cake in orange honey and the juice of a few fruits.

            “You’re not even listening,” he accused with a laugh.

            “I’m sorry, ser,” she set the cake back in the oven to finish. “I was distracted.” Distracted by the letter sitting quietly in the pocket of her dress, unassumingly waiting to be opened.

            “Are you glad they’re coming back?” Commander Cullen wiped his hands on his trousers and turned to fully face her.

            “Of course I am,” she said truthfully. “Her Worship makes things much more interesting when she is home.”

            “That’s certainly true.” He agreed with a good-natured laugh. “But I didn’t just mean Evie.”

            Elinor huffed, letting herself settle into the chair on the other side of the table. She’d always been more able to be herself around the Commander, for reasons she’d rather not think about. His laugh, when it could be coaxed out, had a soothing tenor to it that could hardly be matched. Normally, she liked to be alone when she baked, but the Commander was the only person in all of Skyhold she was comfortable sharing her safe haven with. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, ser, but I’ll be glad as long as everyone comes home safe.”

            “Is that why you’re making a biscuit recipe from the Free Marches?” Commander Cullen waved the parchment with the recipe on it.

            “Her Worship is from the Free Marches.” Elinor twisted her face crossly and started stacking the biscuits in a basket.

            “Nothing to do with the fact that they’re also Warden Blackwall’s favourite?”

            “I had no idea.” Elinor kept her eyes on him, daring him to call him a liar.

            “Look. Elinor.” The Commander stole another biscuit and grinned puckishly. “Evie has this whole plan about shoving you together with him over the next few weeks, and if you don’t actually fancy him you should tell her so that she doesn’t completely embarrass both of you.”

            Her stubborn dignity had been hoping that the conversation in her Worship’s quarters would be the last of it. The Inquisitor hadn’t done any overt meddling since teasing her about it that night and that had allowed Elinor to relax immeasurably. But now, there was this. A formed plan to humiliate her for a loving reason, but it would be embarrassing no matter what. It was, quite frankly, a little too much.

            “Commander, I’m not entirely sure that I understand where this interest in my personal life is coming from, but it isn’t necessary.”

            The Commander sighed, setting down what was left of the biscuit and wiping his hands again. “I’ll tell you, but she’ll kill me for admitting it.” He took a moment to lick his lips clean – and Elinor mentally congratulated herself for a well made batch of biscuits – before he continued. “Before she left, after we—” he coughed. “Well, you know about the kiss. Anyhow, after that, she told me that she felt guilty. She’d thought for a while that you fancied me and suddenly felt awful that she might have caused you some sort of pain. So she made up her mind to ferret out a match for you.” He watched her as she eyed him, tugging nervously at the back of his neck with one hand. “I just suggested that she narrow it down to someone we already knew fancied _you_.”

            Elinor squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to groan. “Commander, I can positively assure you that this is not the case.”

            Commander Cullen chuckled a little, tossing the last of the biscuit into his mouth and chewing happily before he nodded. “I didn’t think it was. But Evie was convinced.”

            The letter in her pocket suddenly felt ten thousand times heavier. Elinor shoved back from the table and busied herself peaking into the oven to make sure the cake was browning evenly. When she picked up the cloth to pull the pan out of the heat, her hands were so unsteady that she had to stop. She should have read it earlier. She knew she should have. But the reprieve of settling down to bake had been too seductive. She’d simply not been able to wait. But Maker, she was paying for that mistake now.

            “Elinor?” The Commander had come up behind her and was taking the towel out of her hands. She motioned lamely at the cake and he moved to pull it out, barely taking his eyes off her. “Are you alright?”

            “Fine.” She managed a smile. She took the cloth back from the Commander and bent over the cake to test its spring and make sure the glaze was still tacky. “It’s a very kind gesture, ser, but I’ve told her Worship that it’s unnecessary.”

            “I’ll call the whole thing off if you want, Elinor.”

            Elinor rounded on the Commander in a way that was probably much more curt than polite. “I would appreciate that very much, ser.” She did her best to hold her head up, never meeting his eyes but never looking away. “I am not, at present, wanting for companionship of any kind.”

            The Commander nodded, trying to hide the little smile he felt at the sight of her finally asking for something _she_ wanted. “Alright,” he agreed. “But Evie’s going to want to know who you’ve already met. She’ll be convinced there’s someone, if you’re turning down the match.”

            “I assure you, ser,” she swallowed down a choked little gasp. “That there is no one in my life at present.”

            When Elinor finally made it back to her quarters in the wee hours of the morning, she pulled the letter out of her pocket and took a long, deep breath before smoothing it out on her desk. Branson’s cramped, straight handwriting spelled out her name across the envelope, and the Rutherford family crest was stamped into blue wax on the back. She cracked the seal and found a short letter inside, dated a fortnight ago:

 

_Ellie—_  
_At this point, there are thousands of things I’d like to say to you. I’m sorry, of course, is at the top of the list. I don’t know what got into me. I’ve been entirely inappropriate in my letters for far too long. You fell out of love with me a long time ago, and I’ll regret that for the rest of my days. Forgive me for trying so hard to win you back, when I knew I had no right to your heart. I found myself missing you, and I let myself get carried away. But you deserve better than a silly boy who hangs on too hard to what’s past._  
_I leave our affair in your hands. I’ll understand if you decide not to write me again._  
_The only thing I ask is that you keep Cullen safe, if you are able. Mia worries he works too hard (which, of course, he probably does), and Rosie is concerned that he’ll never leave himself time to be happy._  
_Keep him safe. Make yourself happy. And if you can find it in your heart, please forgive me. I didn’t mean to hurt you the first time, and Maker knows I don’t mean to do it again._  
_Always,  
_ _Branson_

 

            She must have read the damned letter a dozen times. Her mind started spiraling as she stared at the parchment on her little writing desk.

Commander Cullen didn’t know that his brother had been the only man she’d ever honestly loved, and he didn’t need to. He didn’t need to know that whenever she looked at him, she saw the figure of a younger, thinner man with curly brown hair and the same amber eyes staring back at her. Knowing that would only make him feel guilty, and that wouldn’t help anyone. Sending on his family’s concerns would only raise more questions. She had never breathed a word of her relationship to his family, and there was no need to tell him now. There was no need to tell him that the reason she enjoyed his company while she baked was because his brother used to have the very same habit.

            Somewhere inside her, she felt a wave of guilt crash up against the wrenching sadness in her heart. When she’d first written to Branson after coming to Haven, it had just been to make sure the family knew that Cullen was alive and well (she remembered their saying how little he used to write his siblings). Their letters had been short and cordial for a few months, until recently when a floodgate of old sentiments had tumbled out of their pens, and every smothered feeling she’d ever convinced herself that she didn’t have anymore had bubbled straight up to the surface.

            Bran had insisted it would be different this time, if she could forgive him, and Maker did she ever want to.


	4. The Arrival

            The Inquisitor was set to be home just before supper, according to the scouts that were riding ahead of her; and Elinor had a bath drawn, a fire ready, and supper on a tray in her quarters so she would be able to relax once she was off of her mount. The other bit of preparation was to be waiting at the stables for her arrival, to make sure the large, purple nuggalope was taken care of properly – the stable hands were wary of him on the best of days.

            When the Inquisitor and her companions came over the bridge into Skyhold’s courtyard they looked no worse for the wear. In fact, the Inquisitor was happily waving at her maid and her Commander, both standing by for her arrival. She jumped down off of her mount and handed Elinor the reigns. “There’s a bath drawn and a meal in your quarters,” her maid told her, patting the giant of an animal gently on the nose.

            “Oh, Maker bless you,” the Inquisitor threw her arms around Elinor’s neck and laughed. “The Western Approach might be the most unpleasant place in Thedas.”

            “There’s also a fire in the hearth, the mountain will be cold after so long in the desert,” Elinor couldn’t help but smile. Times like this were a reminder: she was _good_ at her job. “And I may have found time for a bit of baking while you were away.”

            “Remind me to ask Josie to give you a raise.” The Inquisitor all but kissed her, happily trotting away towards the main keep.

            Elinor was left to shake her head and lead the nuggalope into his stall. With a few small treats from her pocket and an apple left behind with the groom, she was free to take the next hour or so while the Inquisitor settled back in to life at Skyhold. Elinor was happy to spend it in her own quarters in the Inquisitor’s tower, but given the way the Commander excused himself the moment she was gone, Elinor thought it might be advisable to give them some time alone – that is, _not_ in a tower that echoed dramatically. So she went to the tavern for dinner, instead.

            The Herald’s Rest was as busy as always, and any number of heads turned to nod hello to her as she went in, settling herself in a corner with a hot bowl of stew and a mug of hot cider. There was music to be had and enough raucous company to amuse her, and she quickly found herself more relaxed that she’d been all day. Partway through her meal, a gloved hand set down a full mug next to her empty one, and Warden Blackwall was at her side. “May I?” He asked, motioning to the bench across from her.

            She put on her most polite smile – hopefully a warm sort of one, for the sake of kindness – and nodded. “Of course, ser.”

            “Blackwall will do,” he settled himself comfortably, cradling a mug of ale between his hands. “What do the laws of protocol demand I call you, then? I regret that I’ve not asked before.”

            Elinor wrapped her hands around this second mug of tea and worried her bottom lip. Protocols. Always protocols. “I ought to be called Sergeant,” she confessed. “A lady’s maid should be known by her surname. But Lady Montilyet thought it best to call me Elinor instead, as there were so many soldiers nearby.”

            “Am I permitted then?” The Warden was smiling at her peculiarly; his head almost tilted a bit to the side, lips twitching at the seams. All in an instant, Elinor’s blood ran cold and her palms set to sweating. Was he…? _Maker, please don’t let him be flirting with me._

            “Permitted, ser?” And why was everyone suddenly insistent that she call them by informal names? What madness had plagued Skyhold that had made every one of them throw manners out the window?

            “To call you Elinor,” he clarified.

            She held herself still a moment, to clear her head of the voice that was shouting at her to excuse herself and run. “You may call me whatever you wish, ser. Your position surely demands enough status as that.”

            “Status?” He chuckled warily. “You’ve an odd idea of me, Elinor.”

            “No, ser,” she set the mug aside. The meal was clearly over for her. “I believe I have quite a good idea. Of my place as well as yours.” That being said, she tucked her clammy hands into the folds of her dress and stood on wobbly feet. “Thank you for your company, ser. I must be back to my duties.”

            “Elinor, please, I—” He reached for her hand, but she kept it tucked firmly away.

            “May I speak freely, ser?” Her lips were pursed tight against the anxious redness creeping up her face. The Inquisitor had clearly not discouraged her companion from seeking her company, so Elinor would have to do it herself.

            “Of course,” he merely nodded, eyes wide with the sympathetic apology that was doubtless on the tip of his tongue.

            “Though the Inquisitor’s intentions were doubtless honourable,” she worked to contain the mortified waiver in her voice. “I feel obligated to tell you myself that I am not presently seeking companionship of any kind.”

            Warden Blackwall retracted his hand immediately. If she was beet red, he had gone white as a sheet. “I meant no offense,” he insisted immediately. “And cannot possibly apologize enough if I have caused you hurt in any way.”

            “No ser,” she shook her head adamantly. “I am quite sensible to the compliment you’ve paid me, but it is impossible for me to return it.”

            A small smile found its way back to his lips and he nodded in return. “I hope we can be friends, Elinor, if nothing else.”

            _Maker, why did everyone suddenly want to be her friend?_ She swallowed the thought down. She would have to process it much later on. “If you would like that, ser.” She made the barest of curtsies and made for the door.

            Elinor fairly flew to the Inquistor’s tower. It was quiet inside, which she took as a good sign, so she knocked lightly on the door before opening it slightly and calling up the staircase: “Your Worship?”

            “It’s just me and Cullen,” the Inquisitor called back. “Come on up, Elinor.” The pair of them were bracketed in furs in front of the fire place. The Commander had the Inquisitor tucked under his arm and she had her hands curled around her tea cup. “How was it here while we were gone?”

            “As quiet as Skyhold ever gets, my lady.” She smiled weakly, hands still tucked into her dress.

            “Evie,” the Inquisitor reminded her with a smile.

            “But…your Worship…” Elinor motioned vaguely towards the Commander. It seemed manners were to be abandoned altogether, and nothing was to be done about it.

            “I still think it’s ridiculous that you won’t call me Cullen,” he pointed out.

            Elinor was sure that somewhere in Redcliffe Village, the old housekeeper that had been her teacher was shaking her head miserably. She sighed, very audibly, and threw up her hands a little. “Very well. I can’t seem to get the idea out of your heads, so I suppose I’ll have to accept it.” If there was anyone in all of Skyhold that she could find it in herself to bend the rules for, it was the couple on the rug before her.

            “Good, then,” Evie looked quite pleased with herself. “I need to ask you a favour tomorrow, Elinor.”

            “It is very literally my job to do whatever you need me to,” Elinor pointed out. “You have only to name it.”

            Evie grinned at her and held up Cullen’s hand, which had a biscuit locked firmly in his fingers. “Wherever this recipe came from, please make more tomorrow. I’ll banish the cooks from their own kitchens if I have to. But Cullen is eating them all and I won’t stand for it.” She was laughing, all but holding her side at the way he was absolutely coveting the plate.

            Elinor bit back the smile that was threatening to split her face and simply nodded instead. “Of course.” And then a wicked thought occurred to her. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to borrow Comm—” she corrected herself when both of them raised their eyebrows at her. “Cullen. I’ll have to borrow Cullen if I bake. He was, after all, a great help.”

            “You helped bake?” Evie was all but giggling. “You never told me you could bake!”

            “I take things out of the oven,” Cullen admitted. “That’s about the extent of my help.”

            “And you lick the spoon,” Elinor reminded him.

            “Yes,” he shrugged sheepishly. “I have been known to lick a spoon now and then.”

            The next morning started as usual: with the Inquisitor fed and dressed and delivered to her war council meeting all in due course. After that, Elinor took herself out to the gardens for a small surprise before she set about trying to get more baking done. Lady Trevelyan loved flowers more than life itself, so Elinor was going to leave her a fresh vase of them on her desk to make her work a little less tedious.

            When she went down the steps of the main hall, a rider with a great pack on his back was dismounting his horse, a regal-looking messenger was arriving, and a group of scouts were getting ready to depart. There were ravens in the air and nickering from the stables far below. She was halfway down the last flight of steps when she heard her name was several yards away.

            “Ellie?” The dismounted rider was striding towards her, almost running.

            The panic rose in her veins before she even saw his face. She knew that voice without thinking. On her death bed, she would be able to recognize it. Her throat ran dry and her skin lit on fire and her heartbeat sped to twice its normal pace. She was somewhere on the precipice of confusion and elation, and it was anyone’s guess where she fell.

            She didn’t realize that she had gone down the rest of the steps, but somehow she was standing in the meager grass of the courtyard, looking up at curly brown hair and bright, golden eyes. She forced herself to look down at the ground, gathered herself, and looked straight ahead so that her eyes met the seams of his surcoat and not his gaze. “He’s in a meeting,” she managed to choke out. “I’ll have someone bring you up something to eat while you wait.”

            She was already turning away when he reached out and caught her arm. “El, as much as I love my brother and will be glad to see him, I’m here for you.”

            “Not here, Bran,” she shook her head adamantly, voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “Go to the main hall. I’ll have them bring you some food. If the Commander finds out you’ve been here and he wasn’t the first know, he’ll start asking questions that I’d rather not answer.”

            “The Commander?” Branson Rutherford almost snorted with laughter. “His name is Cullen, Ellie. He’s not your boss, he’s just Cullen.”

            Elinor looked up at Branson with a warning burning in her eyes. “I am lady in waiting to the Inquisitor, and Commander Cullen most certainly is my superior.” Her voice fairly rumbled. “So I will ask you again, to go sit and eat, and I will bring the Commander to you when he is available.”

            Branson let go of her arm and sucked in a deep breath. He looked down at her so quizzically that she almost felt as though she’d wounded him. “He has no idea about us, does he?”

            “No.” She shook her head curtly. “Nor does he need to.”

            “El—”

            “No,” she was biting her lip to hold back the six or seven different emotions threatening to overflow. “He hasn’t the slightest idea we’re even acquainted, Bran. And I beg you to keep it that way.”


	5. The Introduction

            Elinor was holding her breath against the wall, almost praying that the War Council meeting would never end and she could just will this day to begin again. Just a normal day. She wouldn’t go to pick flowers this time, she would just go down to the kitchens to bake more biscuits and keep her head down.

            And then the War Room door swung open.

            Her Worship looked positively chipper, though Lady Montilyet and Sister Nightingale left the room without a word, rubbing their temples as they went. The Commander, stoic as always, trailed behind to pull the door shut and nodded politely when he saw Elinor standing by. How no one could see that she was very nearly shaking in her boots was quite beyond her. When she finally found her voice again, her Worship and the Commander were halfway down the hallway.

            “Commander? Ser?” She found herself taking a few large strides to be able to fill the space between the Inquisitor and the Commander. He had turned abruptly to face her, and was now looking down at her where she stood. “I’m afraid I have news, ser.” Maker, that was an understatement.

            “Bad news, I take it?” He had one hand on the pommel of his sword and the other at his waist, just the way he stood when inspecting his troops or staring down a group of unwanted nobles. This stance was hardly ever directed at her, and only made her want to disappear further from their sight.

            “I couldn’t say, ser,” she swallowed – hard – and looked down at the hem of her skirt. There was no conceivable way she was going to be able to look him in the eye when she told him.

            “Elinor?” The Inquisitor’s small hand found its way to the middle of her maid’s back, her thumb rubbing small circles across the bodice of her dress. “What’s wrong?”

             “Forgive me,” Elinor shrugged out of the too-intimate touch and straightened her shoulders. “Commander,” she forced herself to look up, but kept her eyes on his chin to avoid him seeing into her. “Your brother arrived this morning. He was in the main hall when I left him.”

            The smile that broke out over the Commander’s face was matched only by the sudden quickness in his steps. “Why so serious?” He called over his shoulder, as the Inquisitor slipped her arm through Elinor’s and pulled her along the hall. “He’s not so terrible, when you get to know him. Most likely.”

            Mercifully, he was through the next set of doors before she could answer, but the Inquisitor’s voice was clear and bright in her ear. “You should have come and told us directly,” her Worship was grinning. “Cullen hasn’t seen his siblings in…well, you know how long. They’ll be so pleased to see each other after so much time apart!”

            The Inquisitor pulled her down the hallway, trailing merrily after Commander Cullen. In a breath, he was gone through the door into the main hall, and they followed a step later.

            Out in the main hall, Branson was pacing along the length of the table just to the left of the door. The creek of the latch and scrape of hinges had snapped him to attention, and now he was hugging his brother fiercely, with his eyes squeezed shut so tightly they might have disappeared. Elinor stood carefully and quietly against the wall, a foot or so behind where the Inquisitor flanked her Commander. Her Worship was so giddy with excitement that she was nearly vibrating, clasping her hands together in front of her like a child waiting to be handed her gift.

            “You didn’t mention he was handsome,” Lady Trevelyan whispered over her shoulder.

            Elinor tried very vehemently to shove her rising anxiety back down into her stomach. “Your Worship could hardly doubt otherwise,” the words almost strangled her. “Being as familiar with the Commander as you are.”

            Branson and Commander Cullen kept their hands clasped, heads bowed until they were nearly touching and voices so low that even a passing bird would think they were silent. When they finally tore themselves apart far enough to look up, Lady Trevelyan fairly leapt forward to clasp both of her delicate hands over one of Branson’s large, strong ones. She managed to pull him all the way down to be able to plant a charming little kiss on his cheek, but never let go of his hand. Despite the blood pounding in her ears, Elinor felt the sting of Branson’s eyes on her, and she was sure she could hear the Inquisitor making him some sort of invitation.

            Maker, but that was the stuff of nightmares for the silent maid against the wall.

            And it seemed that single thought was loud enough to remind the Commander and the Inquisitor that she was still there. “Elinor!” The Inquisitor beckoned her forward with a beaming smile.

            The abominable drag of boots on stonework rumbled in her own ears though everyone else in the room heard only a tap. The Commander couldn’t bring himself to look away from his brother, not even for a moment. Even her Worship was enraptured by this new arrival. But every step closer Elinor took towards Branson, her eyes dropped lower and lower to the floor. Her mouth seemed to be locked shut – she couldn’t have spoken even if she’d wanted to.

            But he kept his eyes steady on her. “The Inquisitor—”

            “Evie,” her Worship corrected, with what was nearly a giggle.

            “Evie.” Branson nodded and leant the shorter woman a smile. “Evie has given me leave to stay as long as I like.” His voice was low, vibrating somewhere deep in the back of his throat and shooting down her spine like lightning. “I hope that means we’ll be seeing more of each other,” his eyes darted quickly between Elinor and his brother. “Miss…?”

            The sand in her throat was mixing with the bile in her stomach and the combination threatened to smother the breath in her lungs. “Sergeant,” she supplied, damning the slight crack in her voice. “Miss Sergeant.” The meekness of it caught the Inquisitor’s attention, and she swung her head around to look at her maid quizzically. Pallid as her complexion doubtless was, Elinor thought vaguely that she must resemble some sort of crude impression of a spirit born out of the Fade.

            Something like a hiccup escaped her Worship’s throat. “Elinor?” She said the elder woman’s name carefully to catch her attention. “I think it’s time to dress for supper. May I tear you away?”

Elinor felt the wind blow out of her, her skin sagging on the frame of her. “As my lady wishes,” she murmured. And she quickly followed the Inquisitor up to her chambers.

            It wasn’t until they were upstairs that the Inquisitor rounded on her, crossed her arms in front of her chest, and peered over the end of her freckled nose; trying very hard to hide the fact that she was giggling. “He likes you,” she stated emphatically.

            “I don’t know what you mean, your Worship,” Elinor made to move past her to the wardrobe, but was held back by her Worship’s small hands clasped around one of her own.

            “Evie,” the Inquisitor reminded her. “Branson couldn’t take his eyes off you. Not for a single moment.” There was that giggle again: girlish, almost impish.

            Elinor’s other hand was clenched into a pulsing fist in a vain effort to keep the blood from rises in her cheeks. “Honestly, your Worship, I couldn’t even think what you mean.”

            “Oh, of course you can!” Evie let go of Elinor’s hand to let her finish her path to the wardrobe, but her grin followed the other woman clear across the room. “I should have him escort you to dinner some time. We’re the same size, Elinor, you can borrow one of my dresses.” The Inquisitor was practically swaying in place in the middle of the room, altogether very pleased with the idea.

            Elinor pursed her lips and did her very best to concentrate on undoing the laces of the Inquisitor’s supper gown. “I’m sure Master Rutherford was simply being kind.” Maker, that one thing would be the death of her. _Master Rutherford._ A man she’d sat under fruit trees with and built fires with, and taught to mend – and now he was ‘master’ to her. The very thought of it wrenched her heart like a vice.

            “I’m sure Master Rutherford would like to kiss you silly,” the Inquisitor teased. Elinor’s head went up like a shot, the probably overdramatic reaction of shock tinged with a gasp that was nothing short of aghast. Surely her face was twice as deep a red as her curly, ginger hair with that one single comment. And something about the extremity of the reaction had Evie Trevelyan immediately at her side, with her hands on either of Elinor’s shoulders. “Are you alright?” She heard the Inquisitor asking, as though the younger woman were much further away than simply in front of her. “Elinor? I said ‘are you alright’?”

            She felt as though she might faint on the spot, but all she said was, “Of course, you Worship. Just a touch warm.” _Maker, please deliver me from this nightmare in which I find myself…_

            “I didn’t mean to upset you,” Evie was rubbing her thumbs in small circles on the tips of her maid’s shoulders. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Forgive me.”

            “Think nothing of it,” Elinor shook her head vehemently, breaking out of her mistress’s grasp and going straight over to retrieve the gown from the wardrobe door. “We must have you dressed, your Worship.”


	6. The Kitchen

            There was no baking project in the world that would keep Elinor busy enough to get her mind off of the fact that Branson Rutherford was now at Skyhold. There were no cakes elaborate enough or duplications of recipes large enough to engage both her body and mind in something other than swimming in memories of his voice calling her name or his hand catching her arm.

            The thoughts and memories were so clear, in fact, that she could swear she heard him even now.

            “Ellie?” When she finally looked up from the dough she was kneading (rather more furiously than was perhaps strictly necessary), he was standing in the doorway.

            “Bran!” It was practically a yelp.

            He grinned sheepishly, tugging ever so slightly at the back of his neck the same way she had seen him do thousands of time, and the Commander a hundred times as well. “I hoped I’d find you here.”

            “You mean you hoped there would be fresh baking?” She raised one eyebrow at him. The Rutherford men blushed easily, were endlessly protective, and could eat their weight in pastries.

            “I mean I wanted to talk to you,” he took a cautious step forward. “The baking is a happy addition.”

            She rolled her eyes and pointed him towards a platter of flaky apple pastries that looked like little roses before she started rolling out the bread dough in her hands. He sat down in the chair a few feet from her and ate for a moment in silence.

            “Bran, why are you here?”

            He had the last bite of apple and cinnamon in his mouth when he tilted his head at her lamely. “I told you,” he said, once the bite was gone. “I came to see you.”

            “Your last letter said it was up to me,” she was now laying out the flat of bread on a metal tray and indelicately punching aggravated looking wholes in it with her fingers. “You said it was my decision.”

            “I know,” he nodded, a little sheepishly. “I know I did.”

            “So why did you come?” Dropping a large splash of oil and a generous amount of salt over the top of the dough, she circled the table the long way so she wouldn’t have to walk past him. She slid the tray into the oven as evenly as she could manage with shaky hands. “I was going to write.”

            “What were you going to say?” The words flew out of him, pushing the air out of his lungs and forcing him out of his chair.

            Ellie sighed, dropping her chin to her chest and squeezing her eyes shut. “I’m not entirely sure, Bran. It’s not as though we had some tiny tiff and I went off in spite of you.”

            “I know,” he took another small step towards her. “But the whole thing was my fault. We both know it was. You needn’t even forgive me, right away.” Another step, and now he was close enough that she could see he was shaking a little, too. “But I still love you, El. I never stopped. I know I have no right to ask, but all I want is the chance to prove that to you.”

            “Bran—”

            “I know. I have no right to ask.”

            “Bran,” in two steps, she closed most of the distance between them; standing just far enough apart that it would take real intention to touch. She shook her head a little resignation and when she looked up again her brow was as furrowed as a crone’s. “We…Maker’s breath…I left the _ring_ , Bran. It wasn’t a tiny fight.”

            Branson slipped two fingers into the pocket of his vest and pulled out a small, etched gold band. “I was rather hoping you would want it back,” he admitted.

            “Oh Maker…” Ellie almost toppled sideways toward the table; her head was spinning so fast and her blood was pounding so hard in her ears that the world seemed to move sideways. He caught her easily, though, and she found herself held against his chest: listening to his hammering heart beat just as erratically as her own. Her hands automatically met between his shoulder blades, pressing him tight against her. He still smelled the way she remembered – like dust after a summer rain – as calm and comforting as ever, despite the wrenching ache in her belly. Almost the very moment he had brought her into his arms, she could feel the tears stinging the backs of her eyes. His skin felt hot against hers, radiating through their clothes as though it could burn them away. She’d never been so disoriented in her life.

            “I’m not going to push you, El.” Branson had one hand in her hair, stroking calmly through her long curls on pure reflex. “But I’m here, if you want me. If you want me to scout the Hinterlands for a special flower or sign up for Cullen’s army to prove I’d risk me life for you, or run naked through a—”

            She clapped one hand over his mouth and gave him a small smirk. “Stop being so dramatic.” She considered him: forehead creased with the same kind of worry that she remembered from their last months together, lips flattened into the thin line they always formed when he was struggling to find the right words. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “I haven’t a clue how to start again. Or if we can start again, after everything.” She pulled herself out of his arms delicately. “All I can say,” she offered him a smile. “Is that I’m glad you’re staying here for a while.”

            It wasn’t until she turned around that either of them noticed the Commander standing in the doorway.

            “I came to see if you wanted company,” he remarked with a grin. “But I see my brother has beaten me to it.”

            “Commander, I can explain—” She almost swallowed the words whole. Oh Maker, this was going to cost her. The Commander of the Inquisition was her clear superior, and here she was fraternizing with his brother in secret. She could be stripped of her position instantly. Sent back to the country with nothing. All at a single word. Getting caught could cost her everything.

            “I admit it’s a bit odd,” he shook his head and smiled a bit bemusedly. “You did just meet his morning.”

            “Actually, Cul—” Bran’s voice cracked a little, somewhere over Ellie’s head.

            She felt faint. Short of breath and lost in her own mind. All she managed to say was his name, and then shoot him a warning glance. _If anyone is going to explain this, it’s going to be me_. Bran closed his fist around the ring and dropped his hand to his side in response.

            “If you’ll allow me to explain, ser,” Ellie could actually hear herself swallow, she was so anxious.

            “You don’t have to explain anything Elinor,” the Commander smiled genially and waved one hand in a dismissive gesture. “I have no intention of breaking up a flirtation. Especially between the two of you.” He nearly laughed at that. “Although I rather think Bran’s getting the better end of this deal.”

            “I fear we’ve given you the wrong impression, ser.” She held her hands behind her back to hide the fact that she was shaking again. “I was not, perhaps, entirely forthcoming with you about your brother’s arrival.”

            “Oh?” Commander Cullen was leaning in the doorway, looking entirely ready for a story. She doubted very much that the one she was about to tell was the one he was expecting.

            “Rather,” _Maker forgive me._ “I have lied to you, ser. And Branson has as well, at my urging.”

            “I don’t understand.” The Commander flicked his gaze between them quickly.

            “We were engaged, two years ago.” Branson Rutherford had a penchant for blurting things out when they required a delicate hand. Tonight, apparently, was no exception.

            “Bran!” Ellie shouted, at the same time Cullen repeated, “Engaged?” rather incredulously.

            “Well, we’re obviously not now,” Bran pointed out; as though it might help the situation become less awkward.

            “How did I not know you were engaged?” One of the Commander’s arms was sagged at his side as the other pulled at the back of his neck. It was odd, in this moment, to see him so entirely off kilter. Out of armour, hair mussed from interrupted sleep, and now information that he clearly didn’t know how to digest. She wished on every star she’d ever seen that this conversation could have been avoided.

            “We wrote,” Bran’s voice held a distinct shrug, “but you were in Kirkwall then. And Maker knows the post was the least of Kirkwall’s concerns.” From the corner of her eye, Ellie could see Branson’s arm raise in the same motion of nervous energy: fingers pulling at the nape of his neck as though it held the key to some kind of mysterious answer. “We did wonder why you never replied.”

            “So how long have you…?” Commander Cullen sounded absolutely bewildered. “How did you…? Why did you hide it, Elinor? All this time and you never said a word.”

            “Truthfully, ser? I was afraid of what you might think of me,” she trailed off, eyes dropping instantly to the floor, hands hugging her elbows. “If you’d known, you might have treated me differently. So might Lady Trevelyan. And I didn’t want that.”

            “Treat you differently? How?” An amused grin broke across his face. “What, like family?”

            “But I’m not, ser.” She protested immediately.

            “Perhaps not technically,” the Commander stepped further into the kitchen. Just a step closer to her. “But it certainly wouldn’t have made me think less of you, to know you had been very close to my brother.”

            “I told you he wouldn’t—” Bran started, but Ellie glowered at him again. “What?” He just continued on. “I knew Cullen wouldn’t care, and I knew you were being overly paranoid.” For some reason, the last bit made him smile down at her rather fondly. “Not everyone cares about social rankings as much as your mother does, El.”

            Cullen looked between them with drawn concentration, as though piecing together this puzzle was more than he was prepared to deal with. “So the great hall? Pretending to not know each other?” He rubbed the back of his neck again. “That was for my benefit?”

            “Ellie said you didn’t know,” Bran laid one hand gently on one of Ellie’s, where she had it clasped at her elbow. “I thought it would be better to tell you in private, but we didn’t have time for that before,” he shrugged rather lamely. “Before meeting the Inquisitor as well…and you have to understand, Cul, I didn’t know what I’d be walking in to here. If El would even talk to me.” He gave her hand a squeeze and was rewarded with a barely perceptible shift backward to be closer to him.

            “I insisted we not tell you.” A sliver of shame rimmed her words. “I was afraid…of what her Worship might say…or you, ser. If you learned about…” she felt herself leaning against Bran’s torso, almost hoping his chest might swallow her whole. “If you knew what had happened between us. Nothing had been said. No one had any idea about the engagement. And I never thought to see Bran again…”

            “Maker’s breath…” Cullen’s face absolutely fell. “Forgive me. Both of you,” he was choked as well. His voice was thick in the back of his throat. “Today has been a trial for you. I’m sorry for that.”

            “That’s kind of you, ser,” Ellie’s eyes had dropped back to the floor again. Without Bran behind her to hold her up, she might just collapse in on herself.

            “Cullen, please,” he looked almost pleading. “Especially after all this.”

            Given the circumstance, she honestly thought he was probably correct. But that kind of overstep of her position would create talk around the keep, as well as sanction from the head housekeeper, and could even result in a dismissal. In the space of ten minutes, the world was turning on its ear.

            For the second time in as many days, Ellie threw up her hands in resignation. “Cullen, then. But as I told Lady Trevelyan: only in private.”

            Cullen chuckled. “This counts as private, Elinor. You can call her Evie.”

            Still standing behind her, Bran was stroking his thumb over her knuckles. “Is that what you go by here?” He asked, voice pitched down a little in unintentional intimacy.

            “It’s my name,” she looked up over her shoulder at him.

            “Your name is Ellie,” he protested.

            “Amongst friends, yes—” the admission had her turning around and scowling at him, hiding a mortified expression from Cullen’s sight. _How ungrateful I must seem_. She turned back to Cullen and sighed out a small smile.

            “Amongst friends?” He inquired. Maker, if there were any two men who could look like scorned mabari puppies, they were the Rutherford brothers. “Am I crossing boundaries to hope that that might not be too far away?”

            “Technically,” a genuine smile cracked her features, pushing her freckles up around her eyes. “You are allowed to call me whatever you like.”

            “But I won’t,” Cullen shook his head. “Not without your allowance.”

            She could practically feel Bran’s eyes on her. Hoping, nearly begging, that she take this step. It was no secret that she was shy. That she had trouble accepting people into her life. But this was his brother, and Maker preserve her, she knew how much this meant to him.

            And truly, to her. Cullen had been a better friend to her since she joined the Inquisition than she’d ever deserved. It would be gratifying to be able to treat him as such, despite every reason she shouldn’t.

            “Alright,” she acquiesced, feeling something oddly light spread out in the middle of her chest.

            Her reward was a broad grin, and another reach of his hand to his neck. “I’ve disturbed your…reunion…long enough.” He smothered a half-laugh. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.” With a nod, he turned and disappeared into the darkness, pulling the door shut behind him.

            She couldn’t help the relieved breath that toppled out of her. It pushed out with so much force that Bran had to slip his arms around her the rest of the way to keep her fully upright. They fell silent, taking stock of what had passed. He knew now, for better or for worse. She had been terrified of Cullen’s finding out anything at all, but he’d continued to prove himself much kinder than he was even given credit for. That thought was enough to make Ellie turn herself around in Bran’s arms and hold on tight. He was half bent over to have his nose buried in the crook of her neck while he worked to bring his heartbeat back to normal.

            “Bran,” she nudged him after a long moment’s pause. When he didn’t move, she moved her head ever so slightly to get him to take his forehead off of her hair. “Bran,” she repeated. This time he looked up – eyes devastatingly close, and flitting between her lips and her own eyes. It would be so easy to get lost, if she let herself. To jump off the precipice of uncertainty and fall wherever she may. For a single, maddening moment, she thought about giving in. The thought was so real that her body had responded to it, eyes half-lidded and breath coming in shallow puffs as his lips inched towards hers.

            It was the gentle touch of his nose against hers that made her jump back. When she managed to speak, she was desperately hoarse. “I can’t,” she murmured, all too resigned. “Not yet.”

            “Yet?” He studied her face, reading the signs of her confusion and concern as easily as he read a book.

            She nodded a little, though whether it was to encourage herself or him was anyone’s guess. “Yet.”

            She went to wrap her arms around him again, to affirm for them both that she wanted him there, but he held her shoulders apart and tried for a gentle smile as he stepped over to the wall opposite them. He pulled a thick towel off of a hook on the wall and smiled when he saw the slightly gawking face of confusion she was making at him.

            “Bread’s going to burn,” was all he said.


	7. The Dinner

            She stood outside the door for longer than she was comfortable with admitting. Staring at the jacket in her hands and rolling the buttons around in her fingers as though they might provide some sort of momentous answer to any of a thousand unspoken questions if only she could find the right angle at which to twist them.

            Cullen had delivered the jacket to her Worship’s quarters as an excuse to see her before the night’s unnecessarily elaborate diplomatic dinner, and Ellie had left the pair of them together in the tower to have time alone while she fulfilled this…chore.

            She was sent to make sure Branson was properly dressed for dinner as well: as the Inquisitor had made it absolutely no secret that she wanted him there for the festivities. And she’d thought it quite clever to send Ellie to help him get settled. For his part, Cullen had the good manners to look terribly apologetic for it.

            So now she stood outside the door of Branson’s guest quarters, hugging the formal jacket to her chest, and practically holding her breath as she finally reached up one hand to knock on the door.

            “A moment!” His voice sounded nervous. It had a crack in it.

            “It’s me, Bran,” she ignored the request for more time and pushed the door open with one strong arm. From her spot in his doorway, she found him standing slouched over next to his bed with his back to her, wearing nothing but his trousers with his shirt tossed haphazardly on the end of the bed. “Sorry, I—”

            “El!” He nearly jumped out of his skin as he turned to face her. “I—” He stopped for a moment, hand instinctively rising to knead the back of his neck, blush rising quickly, and mouth slightly agape as though he’d forgotten what he was going to say. After a beat, he smiled gently. “I’m glad to see you.”

            “The Inquisitor requests your presence at dinner tonight,” she held up the jacket in her hands as she shoved the door closed behind her. “I’ve been sent to make sure you have the proper clothing.”

            “Of course I have clothing for dinner.” Temporarily ignoring the fact that he was still only half-clothed, Bran made for the small armoire in the corner of the room and swung one door open. “Trousers, vest, plenty of shirts,” he motioned to its contents as though proving his point.

            “Unless you’ve acquired a new wardrobe in the last two years, you probably don’t have what you think you have,” she laid the folded jacket on the corner of the desk next to the door and walked over to the armoire. It took less than a minute for her to shuffle through the clothes that hung there. The swift assessment brought her to the same conclusion she’d expected: he had next to nothing appropriate for this sort of function. “It’s a formal dinner with the delegates from Rivain,” she told him over her shoulder while she rifled through his few options. “You can’t just put on a clean shirt and let that be the end of it.”

            “I’m guessing that’s where this comes in?” He was holding up the bundle of velvet in one hand.

            “It’s one of the Commander’s,” she nodded just once before pulling out the least faded pair of pants Bran owned. “I’ll need to pin it at the waist, but it should be alright in the arms and shoulders.” She stayed facing away from him for a moment more, head bowed slightly and worrying her lower lip furiously. Why in Andraste’s holy name did she have to come across him half dressed and bleary-eyed from sleep? Surely the Maker was having her on. _Keep yourself together, Ellie._

            With a pair of trousers and the best vest he owned folded over one of her arms, she turned around to find him sporting a lopsided smile on his face and his brother’s formal wear over his otherwise bare chest. “It fits well enough,” he told her, shrugging innocently. “Maybe not well enough for the Empress of Orlais to sit next to me at tea, but well enough for one night.”

            She rolled her eyes, biting back the little grin that has slowly lighting up the rest of her like a beacon. “Button it properly.” She did her best to make it sound like an order, resisting the urge to bat his hands away when his unpracticed fingers fumbled with the buttons. “Stand still,” she deposited the clothing in her arms on top of his pillow and went around his back to start checking the fit. She stayed as impossibly silent as she could, being very careful only to touch cloth and not skin.

            After more than a few moments of tense silence, as Ellie made her way around his side, he very carefully cleared his throat. “I haven’t seen you all week,” he murmured, working every syllable in an effort to not sound accusing. “Are you…?” He held his eyes shut even as hers flicked up to his face. “You wouldn’t have been avoiding me?” When he opened them again, she had turned her chin down once more. “That would be paranoid. Right?”

            “I have a job to do, Bran,” she tugged one last time at the hem of the coat and stepped aside, satisfied. “I don’t have a great deal of free time.”

            “But if you had any?”

            “I don’t.” Ellie stepped away again, backing up to the doorway until her hand landed over the latch. She exhaled slowly, feeling the metal under her fingers. “Wear the pants and vest on the bed. And clean shirtsleeves. Not faded, not even one that only has a ‘small’ stain. Clean. The Inquisitor asked for you specifically, so you should at least try to dress properly.” On some level, she felt as though she could feel every bit of air as it entered and exited her lungs. As though the world around her were as taut with strain as she was.

            He nodded, leaning slightly until he was sitting on the edge of the desk not more than a foot away from her. With his arms folded and head bowed, he reached to flatten the strands of curly hair at the base of his neck with a few nervous fingers. “Are you going to be there?”

            “Bran,” she reached instinctively and laid one hand gently on his arm but stopped herself, dropping her arm back down to her side. “Just try to enjoy yourself.”

            Ellie slipped out the door before he could say anything else, and hustled down the hall to the kitchens to eat her own supper before the she was meant to fetch the Inquisitor for her arrival in the main hall.

            The entire heart of the Inquisition was assembled her for the banquet. Parceled out amongst table upon table of Orlesian nobles, Antivan merchants, and the many delegates from Rivain, her Worship’s companions and friends smiled and nodded while their guests voiced clashing opinions over an elaborate meal.

The maids of valets of their long-term visitors stood together on the opposite wall. Elinor was, as usual, was stationed to the right of the head table, waiting along side handmaidens who served the lead delegates.

            The maids (three of them, dressed in too-fine black and blue gowns with silver hair pins and delicate gloves that made even the expensive locket Lady Montilyet had given her months before, look like a child’s trinket) were mooning over the Inquisition’s men. Lord Pavus, of course, drew their attention, and they recognized Master Tethras from his book jackets. Two of the woman were practically fanning themselves at the sight of the Commander, dressed finely in a new jacket and vest that Ellie was sure Lady Montilyet had forced on him. They were murmuring something about how “energetic” soldiers were when one of them caught sight of Branson sitting halfway in between their position on the wall and the place where his brother sat.

            “Oh, Maker,” the girl whispered. “I bet _that’s_ worth a tumble.”

            “Broad hands,” observed one of the others. “That bodes well for the rest of him.”

            “Rough and fast,” the third giggled. “I’d bet my wages on it.”

            The vulgar laughter, however hushed, seemed to suck dry the air around them.

            Ellie prided herself on her demeanor. She’d grown out of childish impulsiveness and had become a woman who carefully considered all angles of any debate before she let anything bother her too much. But no one, absolutely no one, spoke about her Bran as though he were an object. Her temper flared like an angry bronto and she didn’t even bother to hold it back.

            She could feel her blood boiling all at once. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,” she hissed, before she could stop herself. “Speaking of one of the finest men in Thedas as though you were choosing _supper_.” She nearly spat the last word. “Master Rutherford is a good man. And an asset to the Inquisition, as well as a trusted friend to her Worship.”

            The tallest of the three women, easily a decade older than Ellie, looked down at her with a lofty sneer. “Keep your mouth shut, child,” she ordered. “And keep your ignorance to yourself. You’d be lucky to be courted by the dirt beneath my shoes.”

            “I’d keep chaste my whole life rather than become a desperate, shriveled witch who couldn’t find love with a darkspawn.” She couldn’t believe herself, but she was steaming. If she were a mage, she would be breathing fire by now. How dare they? How _dare_ they come into their home and debase their betters with such disrespectful commentary? They had no right. No right at all. No right at all to talk about _him_ like that.

            “Chaste.” One of the maids laughed. “That explains it.”

            If they hadn’t been in the middle of the main hall at a diplomatic supper, Ellie would have had these women under her feet on the flagstones. They had no right to say anything about Cullen, or Bran, or anyone else. No right to say anything about her. And she was in the process of formulating a scathing reply when a pair of amber-gold eyes caught hers from across one of the long dining tables.

            He was looking at her quizzically, brow furrowed and eyes flicking between her and the trio of Rivaini women. He made a small gesture that she should come to him. Just a tip of his head and an uneasy smile. Ellie weaved her way through the valets serving supper and pouring wine, and bent her head down when she was next to Branson’s chair – studiously avoiding the curious expression on Lord Pavus’s face across the table.

            “Everything alright?” he asked, voice low – lips right by her ear. “You look angry. You’re hardly ever angry.”

            “It’s nothing.” They’re regarding you like an animal. They are disreputable, horrible women. They have pushed me right over the edge of sanity. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

            He studied her. She looked tired and annoyed, two things she rarely betrayed. “We could slip out? I’m sure you know a hidden hallway.” He knew very well it was a terrible idea, but he was trying to make her smile.

            “I don’t think so, love.”

The one single sentence – so casual for its importance, hit him like a ton of bricks. Branson’s eyes widened to saucers. “What did you…?”

            “Oh Maker,” Ellie had the distinct instinct to flee, but Bran was faster than her as usual.

            “Ellie?” He had caught hold of her hand and slipped his fingers through hers with ease.

            “We’ll talk about it later, Bran. I promise.” She gave his hand a tight squeeze. “Not under all these eyes.”

            “Alright,” his smile had gone lopsided, and a happy blush was creeping up his cheeks. “I’ll meet you in the kitchens later?”

            She shook her head lightly, not enough to catch attention. “The short hallway, just downstairs. As soon as her Worship is settled for the night.”

            Bran grinned – wide and honest – and brushed his lips across the knuckles of her hand before he let go. “I expect to see you in a timely manner, Miss Sergeant.”

            Ellie let her hand drop back down next to her and returned his grin. “As soon as I am able, Master Rutherford.”

            She straightened up and paced back to her place on the wall with as stoic an expression as she could manage. But she was reasonably sure that every time he glanced over at her the rest of the night, she lit up like a rather expensive Satinalia decoration.

            That shut the other maids right up.


	8. The Conversation

            Maker but it seemed like _hours_ before the Inquisitor was in her sleeping clothes and starting to relax for the night. Ellie felt like she was vibrating – nearly ready to just shed her skin and escape into the dark. To run down three flights of stairs and straight into his arms.

            _No, Ellie. Think. Focus. It’s not that simple and you know it._

            She forced herself to go slowly. Slowly down the two flights of stairs to her own quarters, where she left her apron folded on top of her trunk and carefully took every pin out of her hair, laying them next to each other on her dresser where they belonged. Slowly through the great hall towards the stairs outside the door to Lady Montilyet’s office. Despite the hour, the ambassador was most likely still bent over her desk answering letters and managing the Inquisition’s accounts.

            Slowly down those stairs that opened on to the short hallway below, where Bran was pacing a hole into the rug in front of the painting on the nearest wall. He hadn’t heard her approach. Hadn’t heard the creak of the stairs or the rustle of her boots on the rug. He didn’t know she could see him – his back to her with his hands clasped tightly behind his back and his head bowed as though in prayer. He likely was praying, knowing him.

            “Enjoy supper?” She asked, by way of a greeting.

            “You took forever,” Bran spun around and was at the bottom of the stairs in a heartbeat. “I thought maybe you weren’t coming.” The way he took her hand was almost reverent in its gentleness: like the day they’d first spoken, still entirely vivid in her memory. He meant to lead her down the few remaining stairs lightly, but she took firm hold of his arm and pulled him to her. With her standing a few steps above the floor, he rested his cheek against her the crook of her shoulder and wrapped both of his arms around her firmly waist.

            He was like an anchor, grounding her and keeping her from swaying too far out of reach. “I meant it, you know.” She had wanted to do this carefully: to approach the situation rationally. But her fingers automatically reached to card through his hair and her other hand found its way across his shoulders, and she suddenly didn’t care a sovereign for propriety. “Maker take me, I meant it.”

            “El, we don’t—”

            “Branson, listen to me,” she nudged him backward, stepping down to the floor and leading him away from the stairwell, tugging him into the little alcove that led to disused storage space. It would be just their luck if Lady Montilyet walked out of her office just in time to overhear a particularly volatile confession or exclamation. This was their best bet at privacy. “I don’t know how to do this.”

            “Do what?” He hadn’t let go of her. Here, now, knowing that he could, he held on to her like a lifeline: hands grasping at hers, the pads of his thumbs rubbing over her knuckles in a steady rhythm that belied the erratic pounding in his chest. “That’s not horribly specific.”

            “I don’t know how to start again,” she clarified. “I’m keenly aware of the fact that I still love you, for the record,” she smirked at the way his grin split his face open. “That I have not, in fact, ever stopped.” Ellie couldn’t help but smile along with him. “But we’re not running around your sister’s farm teasing Rosie about her beaus anymore.” _We’re not taking odd jobs to fix the roof of the barn we’ve been playing house in. We’re older now. Things have gotten more complicated._

            “No, we’re running around Skyhold mortifying Cullen and trudging through diplomatic dinners.” He was trying to coax a laugh out of her, but she scowled at him and he only shrugged in return.

            “I can’t leave here. Not now that I’ve settled. Not now that I have work. It’s the first good job I’ve ever had.” She was shaking her head a little, still pressed into his side. “I’m good at what I do, here. I’m not just shuffling around Mum’s shop hoping to find a spare needle.”

            “I’m not asking you to leave.” Bran tightened his arms around her. “Cul found me a job in the stables. I’m staying.”  
  
            Ellie’s head shot up, craning to look at him – at no less than eight full inches taller than her – and tilted her head quizzically. “You are?”

            “Of course I am,” Bran laughed, leaning down to plant a small kiss on her forehead. The warmth of his lips on her skin was all but intoxicating, and he lingered there a moment before standing back up with noted reluctance. “You didn’t think I’d come here just to throw you over my shoulder and drag you back to South Reach, did you?”

            “You’re welcome to try,” she pursed her lips at him. “If you’d like a good, sound beating from both me _and_ your brother.”

            “Evie would get me, too,” he agreed, still smiling. “But I wouldn’t dare. I came here to be with you, not to convince you to go back to before.” He hung his head a little, letting their foreheads come to rest against each other as his hands slide down her back until they rested on the very bottom line of her dress’s bodice, just above her hips. “I’ll tell you I love you every day for the rest of our lives and it’ll never be enough,” he murmured. “But I can’t do it unless you let me.”

            The part of her that was a little broken, a little rearranged, seemed to her to be knitting back together with every second he held her. And it was enough to have her nudging the tip of his nose with her own. “Bran?” She whispered so quietly she could barely hear it herself.

            “Mm?” He was no more than a hair’s breadth away from her. Curls falling haphazardly down about their foreheads and golden eyes darkened to near brown. With his inhale came her exhale, and for a moment all they could do was look at each other.

            She felt so light she could fly, with butterflies churning in her stomach that hadn’t been in residence in six years. “Can I kiss you?”

            It could have been a laugh or a gasp, but the sound that caught in Bran’s throat was followed by his fingers pressing into her hips, pulling her the mere inches forward that she needed to be flush against him. It was that small press that had her hands sliding up around his neck and the small distance left between them, closed in an instant.

            It should have meant clarity – relief, or some kind of cleansing feeling – to be kissing him again, but there was a little hiccup in the back of Ellie’s throat that stole her calm out from under her. Her knees started to tremble at the same time that a small sniffle escaped her. Bran felt it as soon as she did, picking his head up just a moment after she pulled away from him.

            The only thing he could do was run his thumbs under both of her eyes as the tears started to fall in earnest. She wrapped her arms around her own waist and leaned her forehead against his shoulder as his hands continued to cradle her face. “He’d be two,” her voice came out in nothing better than a croak. “He’d be two by now.”

            “I know,” Bran tucked her closer into his side – the mother of the son he would never meet – and swallowed down his own tears for her sake. They had both cried oceans since they’d lost the baby. More wouldn’t help.

            Ellie gulped back the shallow breaths that didn’t seem to end, reaching up again for the desperate reassurance of Bran’s lips on hers. She’d forgotten, since she’d left South Reach. She’d forgotten how he seemed to shift all of her puzzle pieces into place with such ease.

            It could have been minutes or hours before they separated again, but when they did it was Bran who pulled away first, breathless and a little shaky. Ellie felt like a whirlwind: happy, anxious, relieved, worried, elated, concerned, and grateful all in equal measure. It bubbled out of her in an odd little noise that sounded halfway between joy and sorrow, and painted a broad smile across her freckled face.

            “May I show you something?” He asked. His voice was still soft despite being a bit hoarse from long, heavy kisses. When she nodded slightly, he went on. “I had an idea,” he told her, tracing the lines of her jaw with sweet, chaste kisses. Kisses that trailed up her cheeks and washed away the remnants of her tears. He fumbled in his pocket, refusing to break contact even for a moment, until his fingers roped around his prize.

            “You’ve said you still love me…and you know I’ve never stopped. I did my best to make sure you understand that…” he swallowed a breath, as though he were trying to remember the next part of a speech. “I still want the life we planned, but a lot can happen in two years, and you might not want those things anymore. So,” he was looking down at her like he was drowning, and somehow her eyes were the only thing keeping him afloat. “I want to know what you want now – any changes, any oddities, anything that’s different now. I want to be a part of your life. But this is your decision,” he pressed what felt like a chain into her hand, finally forcing himself to stand up straight. “For you to make. Whenever you’re ready.”

            He’d put her engagement ring on a thin necklace, just a chain to keep it around her neck. She studied it for a moment: the small carvings of flowers etched into the golden band. He’d hated it at the time, thought it was too plain, but she’d always loved it. She still did, truthfully. She unclasped the necklace and reached to put it around her neck, but he took the ends in his clumsy fingers and (though he fumbled to close the clasp at first) secured it around her throat.

            “I don’t know how long it will take,” she admitted, pressing a few fingers against the metal.

            “It doesn’t matter,” Bran ran one finger down the length of the chain, stopping when their hands met. “I’ll be here, whenever you decide.”


	9. The Admission

            Ellie rose early the next morning – despite the late hour at which she’d left Bran – and laid the Inquisitor’s breakfast tray with warm bread, fruit, and a small slab of cheese alongside her tea; and made her way up to the tower.

            The heavy curtains on the Inquisitor’s bed drew open easily, spilling sunlight across the clean white sheets. Evie squirmed under the sunrise, stretching out like a cat with a light, little smile on her face.

            “Good morning, your Worship.” Ellie left the breakfast tray on the side table and went to retrieve the day’s things from the wardrobe. A muffled whine sounded from under the miles of sheets and Ellie smiled – a warmer, friendlier smile that she’d ever expected. “Evie,” she corrected herself.

            “Morning, Elinor,” the Inquisitor crawled out of her nest and sat by her pillows on the edge of her bed next to her tray, lazily putting together a cup of tea. “How long are the Rivainis here?” She asked absently.

  
            Ellie made a huffing little laughing noise (still rather pleased with the way supper had ended the night before) and just kept laying out Evie’s clothing. “Two more days.” Once the clothes were out, she busied herself with tidying the Inquisitor’s desk – she was obviously up answering letters last night rather than turning in – while listening to Evie chat over her breakfast. Admiration of the Rivaini nobles’ beautiful manners. Remarks about how she wished she had time to go tend her garden instead of being in constant meetings. The continued wish that she had more chance to see the Commander outside of anything work related.

            “Cullen’s trying to take a little time away from paperwork, now that Branson’s here,” Ellie added without thinking, moving around the desk to reshelf a few books.

            Evie nearly spit out her tea. “So he’s Cullen now, is he?”

            “I only meant—” Maker, she was in for it now.

            “No, I’m glad!” Evie was grinning at her from the edge of her bed. “It’s about time we all got a little more comfortable together.”

            “When you’ve done with your breakfast, my lady, we ought to have you dressed,” Ellie ducked around the topic by returning to work, finishing fitting the books back on the shelf next to her as swiftly as she could.

            Evie slid off of her bed easily, ambling over to her wardrobe. “Cullen is Cullen but I’m still ‘my lady’?” She teased. When Ellie’s cheeks started to burn, Evie rubbed her hands sweetly over her maid’s shoulders and smiled broadly. “I know it’s not proper manners, Elinor. But I’m still hoping we can be friends.”

            “Of course,” Elinor stifled the title that should have followed, watching the Inquisitor pass behind her dressing screen to change. She emerged a few moments later in simple trousers and a shirt, allowing Ellie to slip her arms into her tunic.

            Evie turned in place, facing her maid so that Ellie could make quick work of the line of delicate buttons up the front of the tunic. She was halfway up Evie’s torso when the Inquisitor gasped so loudly they must have heard it in the courtyard. “What is _that_?” She asked, pointing to the ring hanging around Ellie’s neck. She reached for it immediately, giggling with glee, and reeled Ellie in closer to her by the small piece of jewelry as she bent to inspect it. “Either this happened very, very quickly, or you’ve been hiding someone,” Evie would have absolutely been clapping her hands in joy if she hadn’t been running two fingers along the etched edges of the ring. “You don’t just find a ring like that out of nowhere.”

            Ellie had frozen stark still, standing straight as a board in her place in front of the Inquisitor. It _did_ happen very quickly, and she _was_ hiding someone – but those were entirely separate issues. Maker’s breath, why did Bran have to put it on a chain? Couldn’t he have put it inside a hollowed pocket watch, or stitched it into something she could carry inconspicuously? That pit in the bottom of her stomach that seemed to recently have become an ever-churning volcano was now making her quite glad indeed that she hadn’t had her own breakfast yet. When she finally found the coordination to move again, she gently covered the ring with her own fingers and slipped it from the Inquisitor’s hand, clasping it to her breast. Despite herself, the ghost of a smile twitched at her lips – the fact that she was wearing the ring at all made her feel a little less heavy.

            “It’s nothing to trouble yourself with,” was all she could say. Every single second that passed was draining the blood from her face and she knew it. Despite any gladness over its meaning, it was still a very public declaration. She couldn’t go from absolutely no decoration to a ring at her breast without anyone noticing. And there were no words in the world that would make Evie believe that the ring was insignificant. Working entirely on instinct, Ellie reached forward again to finish buttoning the Inquisitor’s tunic.

            “Oh no!” She stepped backward out of Ellie’s reach and grinned. “Not until you tell me who gave you that ring.”

            “My lady,” Ellie started, taking a measured step forward. The Inquisitor took another step back. “This is really quite unnecessary,” Ellie moved forward again and was countered.

            “Will you tell me if I guess?”

            “I really don’t see—”

            Evie stood with one hand on each hip, grinning from ear to ear. This was a marvelous game for her, practically the most fun thing she’d do all week. “Will you tell me if I guess?”

            “I don’t…” Ellie stepped towards her again, hands out and practically begging. It was bad enough that Cullen knew. That Cullen had seen them together. He had assured her that neither he nor the Inquisitor would turn her out over it, but how was he truly to know? How was he to be sure? “Please, my lady. Please just let me do my job.”

            Evie’s face fell, and she came back across the room as quickly as she could, hands clasped over Ellie’s in no more than a moment. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Elinor, truly.” She gave her maid’s hands a squeeze. “I was only playing.”

            “Yes, my lady,” Ellie nodded faintly and automatically moved her hands back to the buttons on the tunic before her. She found her mind both reeling and blank all at once – abound with the possibilities that she might, in fact, be able to share her secret and trust the person she spent so much of her time with; but ultimately it wasn’t her place. The tightness in her chest tugged directly at her heart. It wasn’t right, to be so close to someone and yet be entirely a stranger to them. It wasn’t fair.

            The thought nearly blew her over. That she _wanted_ to tell the Inquisitor – to tell Evie – but station and protocols stood in her way. Station and protocols that could very likely be overthrown in the years to come, if she and Bran were able to forgive each other, and Cullen and Evie stayed happy. Station and protocols that would cease to exist in a far-off wonderland where the woman standing before her could one day be her sister.

            When the last button was done, and Ellie reached to fix the collar of Evie’s tunic, she squeezed her eyes shut and banished the nervous tingling in her stomach. “Only one other person knows,” she said finally. It was practically a whisper. “And if you are to be the second, I beg you to keep it a secret. For the sake of everyone involved.”

            There was no mistaking the twinkle in Evie Trevelyan’s eyes. She loved a good intrigue. “Is it Blackwall? You put me off because there was already something between you, didn’t you?” She was clasping her hands in front of her chest, excitement bubbling over like a pot on to boil. When Ellie started to shake her head no, Evie squealed and giggled again. “No, no, it’s Branson, isn’t it? I _knew_ he fancied you. Just from the moment he saw you in the hall. But he’s only been here a week!” Evie’s eyes were all but teary. “How romantic…”

            Every bit of blood that had drained to her toes just minutes before, rose again in earnest. It was impossible that hearing his name aloud should make her feel this way again. Maker, she couldn’t even remember the last time that simply the mention of him had made her blush. She had even taken her bottom lip between her teeth without noticing – as besotted as a schoolgirl. _Protocols be damned_ , she decided (and all at once, she heard the heart of her old teacher breaking in half, and the angry chastising of her manners-obsessed mother). “You must promise,” Ellie insisted again.

            “Of course,” the answer was both immediate and honest.

            Ellie brought her mistress before the wardrobe mirror and started to comb through her hair. “I have, in fact,” she blew out a puff of air: a nervous sigh. “Known Branson much longer than this last week. The count is rather more in years, actually.”

            “But, the hall?” Evie’s eyes found hers in the mirror. “You introduced yourself as though you’d never met?”

            “No one knew.” Ellie ran the brush methodically, mindlessly, grateful for the chance to keep her body engaged in something innocuous while her mind reeled. “Cullen hadn’t the slightest idea that I was even acquainted with his brother. So I thought to keep it that way.”

            “But seeing as he’s Cullen now, instead of ‘the Commander’, I suppose that’s changed?”

            Ellie nodded and set down the brush on the table nearby. She concentrated her eyes on braiding Evie’s hair into a rather elaborate Orlesian style and went back to her story. “I suppose you might say that the nature of my relationship with Cullen has changed directly with the change in my relationship to Bran.” She paused, her mind moving faster than her mouth. “But you must understand that what I kept to myself was only history. Bran and I _had_ been engaged, yes, but it was broken off. And rather than let that information colour my chances of employment or, worse, be the cause of my termination – I chose to say nothing at all. The way of things now is a bit more tangled, you might say.”

            “You were _engaged_?!” Evie was all but sputtering at the mirror, eyes as wide as saucers and mouth hanging open. She sounded positively scandalized. Only Ellie’s sturdy hand on her shoulder kept her from spinning around on her heel.

            “As I say,” Ellie hadn’t realized that she’d tucked one hand into the folds of her dress and was tangling her fingers in the fabric. “It was broken off.”

            “But the ring?” Evie’s eyes never once left Ellie’s face.

            The ring. Ellie’s hands went back to work, moving with practiced (if nervous) movements. She stopped herself from touching the little circle of metal at her throat – forced herself to keep on with her work. “He’s come here so that we can talk,” she picked through her words carefully. “The ring means that I am willing—” she shook her head, almost vehemently. “That I want to talk.”

            “Is that all?” Evie turned around when she felt the final hairpin slip into place. “Talk?”

            “Talking must come before anything else.”

            “If he’s anything like his brother,” Evie smiled kindly. “Then I’m sure you’ll find a way to be happy again, Elinor.”

            With Evie dressed, Ellie went straight to folding her nightclothes and tidying the breakfast tray. The machinations of the morning were comforting, in the face of so much disorder. She was halfway through straightening the pile of tea things that always seemed to get tossed around the tray when she paused and set everything down, deliberately wiping her hands on her apron and collecting herself. “Evie?”

            At the sound of her name, the Inquisitor’s head whipped to the side, and another broad grin swept across her face. “Yes?”

            “I prefer to be called Ellie, by my friends.”


	10. The Tour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so SO sorry for the enormous delay!  
> There's been a lot of craziness in my life lately and an extreme case of writer's block that kept me at a standstill for longer than I'd like to admit. I'm incredibly grateful for everyone who comes back to keep reading, despite my unintentional hiatus. Your comments are my life blood <3   
> Thank you so much for reading. You honestly have no idea how much I appreciate it. And you.   
> Yes, you.  
> Right there.  
> You.  
> I love you.  
> Have a good day.

           The Inquisitor was set to ride the perimeter of Skyhold’s grounds with the ambassadors from Rivain this morning – causing the usual early morning War Council meeting to be postponed until after lunch. Having dressed Evie in her riding clothes, Ellie followed her down through the long winding staircases that lead to the stables. Cullen was on hand (having volunteered to escort her Worship, to no one’s surprise), and lent both of the women a wider-than-polite smile when they approached.

            “Your Worship,” a voice from behind the horses stepped around to the Commander’s side, and then Bran was smiling down at them as well. “I have it on good authority that you prefer to ride your nuggalope whenever possible.” He was all but grinning as he led the great animal forward.

            Evie fairly squealed with joy, barely managing to keep her composure in front of their guests. Ellie couldn’t be sure if she was simply happy to see her favourite mount, or if it was the image of tall, obviously strong Branson standing besides a giant, sweet-tempered white nug was what did it. Ellie, for her part, couldn’t actually hold in the guffaw that bubbled up her throat, and had to stifle it in her hand and pardon herself from a “cough”. Evie, Cullen, and Bran all exchanged a small smirk. They all knew very well it wasn’t a cough.

            Cullen stepped forward to help Evie on to her mount in the most gentlemanly way possible, bowing his head respectfully to hide the grin on his lips. They were all – the four of them – feeling rather more than free with their affections this morning, apparently.

Even standing on the little set of steps that Bran had set out for her, Evie was still too short to get into her saddle gracefully. But an extra hand from Cullen (that may have lingered for an extra moment) had her comfortably situated in no time.

            The Rivaini ambassadors didn’t entirely know what to make of the tiny Inquisitor on her great animal. She looked nearly comical, but so very pleased, that no one cared to question it. The lady who seemed to be the head of the delegation of guests simply cocked her head in amusement and took a tentative step towards Marshmallow. “May I?” She asked the Inquisitor, a little too curious to contain.

            Evie just smiled and shrugged her shoulders lightly. “Ask him,” she said, patting the nuggalope’s head lovingly.

            The ambassador curtsied politely and held her hand out to the animal. Marshmallow sniffed her curiously and then nuzzled her hand happily, letting out a little grunt of approval.

            “Looks like he likes you,” Evie grinned.

            A genuine, undisguised smile graced the lady ambassador’s face as she pet the great animal. “I think he does, indeed,” she agreed.

            Tucked away near the edge of the stables, Branson and Ellie kept a respectable six or so inches between themselves. “She really isn’t what I’d expected,” Bran whispered, bent slightly so she could hear him better.

            “She could coax a leaf off of a tree and it would be convinced she was the preferable home.” Ellie clasped her hands behind her back and tried to hold a professional, neutral expression. “I don’t think anyone expected this. Least of all, her.” She thought back to their short discussion just an hour or so ago and smiled gently. “I suppose unexpected is okay, sometimes.”

            “Ellie?” She heard her name as clear as day above the smattering of off hand conversations around them.

            “Your Worship?” Ellie stepped forward immediately, and found the Inquisitor grinning down at her mischievously.

            “I’m certain Master Dennet can spare Branson for an hour or so, until our return. Why don’t you give him a tour of the main keep? It would be good for him to be acquainted with his new home sooner rather than later.”

            Ellie held Evie’s gaze – quietly acknowledging that she knew exactly what the younger woman was suggesting – and nodded in acquiescence. “Of course, your Worship,” was all she said.

            Once the party was saddled and riding away, Bran turned to return his thick outer jacket and gloves to a hook on a nearby wall and offered Ellie a wicked smile. “She knows, doesn’t she?”

            “Bran,” she lowered her voice with intent. “You put it on a chain.” She fingered the little hoop lying on her chest. “The only way you could have marked your territory anymore deliberately is if I were wearing it properly.”

            “I wasn’t trying to—”

            “I know you weren’t,” she smiled to ease the shock of panic that shot through him at the implication that he was trying to own her in any way. “I just meant, it’s out in the open. It’s bound to be noticed. And I know that you wanted it that way, so you needn’t pretend to be embarrassed.”

            “You can’t want to keep it too hidden, if you’re willing to wear it,” he pointed out, motioning that she should lead the way to the keep.

            “Making it quietly known that I am…whatever I am to you…that is…” she huffed out a nervous breath, scowling at the broad grin on his face. “I wear it for myself, and for you,” she tried lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “No one else needs to know its significance. Besides which, no one knows it’s yours besides the two of them. And I’d be glad to keep it that way.” Ellie swallowed thickly. “My job is still at stake, Bran. Even if yours isn’t.”

            “Respectful distance, then?” He asked, as they turned and started walking towards Skyhold’s main hall.

            “No less than six inches, if you please,” Ellie kept her head held high and pointed forward, hands clasped behind her straight back. Evie was doing her a great kindness – giving her time alone with Bran during the day – but they were still treading on eggshells.

            Of course, Bran _had_ actually seen most of Skyhold by now, save for a few of the towers reserved for her Worship’s companions, and a few of the lower rooms. “Upper or lower?” She asked when they had crossed the threshold of the hall.

            Bran nearly choked on the innuendo, but managed to collect himself. “Upper first, I think.” He followed her through the hall and through a doorway into an enormous solar. It was mostly bare, but for a desk in the middle and a few places to sit around the room. He almost didn’t notice the scaffolding to his right until he heard a voice from above him.

            “Good morning, Elinor.” The voice called down.

            “Good morning, Master Solas.” She nodded politely and indicated Bran next to her. “May I introduce Master Rutherford? He has lately joined the Inquisition.”

            “Rutherford?” Master Solas poked his head over the side of the scaffolding and apprised the young man below him, who waved jovially. “Family to our Commander?”

            “Brother,” Bran was almost craned his neck to look him in the eye, but managed it with a sliver of dignity left.

            “Welcome,” the elf said finally, before turning back to Ellie. “There is a bundle on my desk, Elinor, which has the herbs the Inquisitor asked after. Will you please deliver it to her quarters before tonight?”

            “Of course,” Ellie curtsied quickly and went straight over to the desk. There was a pouch marked with Evie’s name on the corner, which Ellie tucked into one of the hidden pockets in the folds of her dress. “Consider it done, ser.”

            Master Solas paid them no more mind, as Bran examined the murals on the walls and stuck his head out the side door to get sight of the quickest way to Cullen’s office. Eventually they disappeared up the stairwell towards the main library, leaving him in peace.

            Barely ten steps up the stairwell, Bran had slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her into him: free hand buried in her hair and heart beat pounding in her ear. He swooped down to steal a kiss, never letting her go. “I missed you,” he murmured, making sure to keep his voice low.

            “We were together not twelve hours ago,” she reminded him, pulling away gently but quickly. “We can’t do this here.” She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze before letting it go and continuing up the stairs.

            They emerged into the main library in silence, walking perhaps an inch or two closer than they had agreed upon and trying not to smile too fondly. They may not be able to indulge in public, but that didn’t stop either of them from being happy to spend time together.

            “Ah,” came a posh accent behind them. “Out for a morning stroll? Isn’t that better achieved outside?”

            “Good morning, Lord Pavus.” Ellie turned to face him, curtsying deeply before returning to holding her hands behind her back. “I trust you are well?”

            “Quite,” Dorian Pavus smiled at the pair of them, fingers steepled under his chin and one leg crossed elegantly across the other. “And you, Branson?”

            “Very well, thank you,” Bran was standing slightly awkwardly between them.

            “I have to say, Elinor, that I’m impressed.” Lord Pavus lifted himself out of his chair and crossed his arms as he approached the pair of them. “We all thought you were holding out because you had a sweetheart somewhere in the south. But no, you were simply waiting for the right prospect to come along.” He regarded her with a fond smile. “Holding out for another Rutherford? You clever girl.”

            “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, ser,” Ellie swallowed. Hard. If Lord Pavus had any inclination of their relationship, she could be ruined. Telling Cullen and Evie was one thing, but anyone else was a liability.

            “Come now, Elinor,” he strolled over to Branson, clasping one hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Surely you wouldn’t turn down the chance to get to know the lad a bit better?”

            “I’m simply taking him on a small tour of the keep,” she kept a polite, hopefully emotionless, smile on her face. “At her Worship’s request.”

            “Our sweet Evie,” Lord Pavus smiled again, shaking his head a bit before stepping back from Branson’s side. “If anyone could set the two of you together, it’ll be her.”

            “We should get on, ser,” Ellie curtsied again, giving a hard side glance to Bran. “Good morning to you, Lord Pavus.”

            They managed to make it around two more sections of the library before Ellie finally exhaled, squeezing her eyes shut and burying her face in her hands for no longer than a moment before she was working once more to school her facial expression back to proper. She was nearly shaking, tense from the inside out. Bran had his arms around her before he could think, but she shook her head adamantly and backed away towards the wall.

            “Not here,” she murmured, staying a careful few feet away from him. “Not where we can be seen.”

            “El, no one’s going to—”

            “None of you seem to believe me when I say that I could be instantly let go for this.” She had her hands tucked into the folds of her dress, small fists clutched around strong fabric where they couldn’t be seen. She would have to press the wrinkles out later, but it was a small price to pay for containing her extreme frustration. “Please, can we not have this discussion here?” Her voice was so low that Bran wouldn’t have heard it, if he hadn’t been so used to her whispers.

            He nodded, lips pressed together in a thin line, holding in the words he couldn’t say while daylight and footfalls graced the halls of Skyhold. So he mouthed them, with no breath at all, a silent “I love you”. Then he raised his voice loud enough that, “Shall we continue the tour?” was heard to those nearby at a reasonably normal volume.

            All she could do in that moment was smile gratefully, touching her fingers to the little gold band around her neck just long enough to communicate, “I love you, too”, before she stepped out of the alcove to lead the way around the rest of the library.

            Through the remainder of the stacks, Bran kept a respectful distance. He chatted politely with Grand Enchanter Fiona, admired the collection of volumes on the subject of Tevinter lore that Lord Pavus was so constantly seen pouring over. And though she was still acutely aware of her apprehensions and the limitations on her actions, she felt herself smiling. Just standing to the side and listening to him make polite conversation was as comforting as a warm blanket on a winter morning. Her mind was on high alert – sensing even the changing of the wind, should it be necessary to know the origin. But her body? The fists she had been keeping her hands balled in to slowly unwound themselves. The tension in her shoulders seemed to slack a little. Her body was loosing stress right down to her toes, even while her mind spun at twice its normal speed.

            When they’d made their way around the entire library, Bran suggested it might be best not to disturb the spymaster (whom he refused to admit he was afraid of), and urged Ellie to show him a few of the lower rooms instead. She assented, hoping with great determination that it might help her to clear her head if they were out of the way of the crowded main halls. Her attempt at soft, quiet steps to bring her composure back were punctuated with the familiar _thump_ of Bran’s boots on the stone. The towering warmth of him walking next to her around the perimeter of the main hall and through to the stairs that lead to the lower levels of the keep. There was something about the situation that was so surreal, so unbelievable, that it made her want to reach out and touch Bran just to make sure he was real.

            Everything that had happened, had happened in less than two weeks. In two weeks they were knitting back together. Tensions high and limitless nerves, but they were finding a rhythm. Their old way of speaking slipping in under all the manners that she had spent two years building up like a wall. The cage of her training seemed to have holes in it just large enough for him to sneak through, allowing him access to things she had thought were buried forever.

            The fear of being caught would always be in the forefront of her mind, but for the first time since he’d reappeared, the fear of losing him again was starting to be just as terrifying.

            And just at the moment that occurred to her, Skyhold’s head housekeeper appeared from behind the door of the main kitchen at the other end of the hallway.

            The bile rising in Ellie’s stomach was threatening to bloom into a volcano. Her mind reeled at the rate of a hummingbird’s wings, relentless babbling refrains of: _Not this time. Not like this. Not this easily._ She was trembling, holding in tears, and about to have the truest, purest experience of panic that she’d ever had in her life.

            So she opened the nearest cupboard door and shoved him in, closing in behind them.

            Before he could properly react, Ellie reached up and clamped one of her small hands over his mouth, holding a finger up to her lips with her other hand to indicate complete silence. She listened hard at the door’s hinge, using the crack in the wood as a gateway to the sound outside their blackened closet. When heavy footfalls and the click of sharp-heeled boots rounded the corner outside their hiding place Ellie tightened the hand over Bran’s mouth and held her own breath.

            It was now, of course, that she realized this would only make the situation worse. If the head housekeeper had seen her go into the closet after Bran, she was finished. If she had simply kept her wits about her and remembered that this tour was _by order of the Inquisitor herself_ , everything would have been fine.

            But she had panicked instead.

            So now she waited with baited breath for her superior to pass by, not allowing herself a moment’s respite until the sound of her feet had disappeared completely into the air. She could have cried with happiness, releasing her grip on Bran’s mouth and clutching both of her hands to her chest in disbelief. If she believed in the Maker, she would have been thanking him for mercy for the rest of her days.

            “Autumn festival, Harvestmere, 9:38 Dragon.” Bran couldn't hold in a breathless laugh.

            “What?” Ellie was pressed against him, breathless in her own right - bright blue eyes lit up with the unexpected adrenaline of their narrow escape.

            “The last time you shoved me into a closet to avoid being caught.”

            “I did not!” She hissed. Her heartbeat was hammering in her ears, making her almost giddy. Lighter somehow.

            “You did.” He found her in the dark, hands around her shoulder with his thumbs drawing circles over their peaks before he slipped those same hands down her arms, thumbs sweeping over her ragged pulse point instead. “We were behind the cobbler's shop avoiding the faire games when you heard your mother calling for you.”

            “Oh Maker!” Ellie clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. “That's right! I thought it was the backdoor—”

            “But it was the storage closet.” They finished together, stifling giggles again. Ellie was illuminated - like someone had opened her up and put a whole bonfire inside. All at once she was surging upward, up onto her tiptoes to drag him down into a bottomless kiss. A whisper of hope and happiness seemed to make him taste all the sweeter.

            “There you are,” he smiled against her, holding on to her as though she might float off if he didn't.

            “What?” Ellie pulled back only enough to be able to look him in the eye.

            “Ellie.” He kissed her again. And again. Over and over until they were both short of air. “My Ellie.”

            “Don't be ridiculous,” she chided, more kisses on her lips. “I've always been yours.”


	11. The Day Off

            “El?”

            She heard him say her name before she heard him move. She was half dressed – stockings, small clothes, corset – everything but her dress and slippers, readying herself to start the day. She’d hoped, at odds with the deeply seated desire to stay next to him until they woke naturally together, that he might sleep through her quiet morning routine. _Deep breaths, Ellie, it’s okay. You have work to do. He knows that._ “Morning,” she murmured, barely turning.

            “Come back to bed, love,” his voice was thick with sleep, almost plaintive, and from the corner of her eye she could see him leaning up on one elbow to better see her.

            Her dress had been hanging on a peg opposite the bed and she pulled it down over her head quickly, beginning to thread the lacing down the bodice with practiced hands. “You know I can’t.”

            She could have, if she had truly wanted to. Shirked her work and lain with him until they’d fallen asleep again, woken curled together in the afternoon sun without a thought to anything else but each other. She could have excused herself somehow. Claimed illness when asked for explanation. Feigned exhaustion from the summer heat. Anything just to stay with him.

            But she would be looked for. She would be hunted for if she didn’t arrive as expected. She couldn’t escape the necessity of being a part of the rest of the world – a world that didn’t always include Bran. A world where they couldn’t always be together. They had to hide – to keep secret so as not to be torn apart. Even staying with him through the night might have been a dire mistake, but she had needed it – craved him so badly that she couldn’t have turned away if she’d tried. It was infuriating and breathtaking the way she couldn’t get enough of him. Having to hide him was tearing at her piece by piece.

            “Will I at least see you tonight?” His voice was closer, but she still hadn’t dared to turn around. The argument in her head about whether or not seeing his face would make it impossible for her to leave was still raging too loudly.

            “As soon as I’m done with the day’s mending.” When she did face him (ultimately deciding that saying a proper good bye was worth the peril), he was sitting on the edge of the bed without even the modesty of the sheet over his lap. When he grinned at her impishly she frowned emphatically and went back to readying herself – searching for a ribbon for her hair. “Promise me you’ll at least dress before then?”

            “Only if you promise me I get to take every inch of this off of you later.” He slipped off the bed as quickly as you please, sliding his arms around her waist and holding her tightly against his chest, hands mapping his favourite parts of her gently, slowly turning from seductive to reverent. “I miss you already,” he whispered, lips against her temple, buried in the thick curls that hadn’t yet been tamed by a ribbon.

            “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she murmured, turning her head up to look into his face: mussed hair sticking to his forehead at odd angles, eyelids heavy from the early hour, lips quirked into a nearly permanent lopsided smile. “I promise.”

 

            Ellie woke before the dream could find its end. The dream. The memory. Whatever it was that was fuzzy and warm around the edges. Things she hadn’t talked or thought about in months or years, things that she had tried to shut away to stem the tide of tears that never ended. She wasn’t surprised to find herself breathing heavily as though it were some sort of terrible nightmare, heart racing and eyes starting to water. “Stop it,” she chastised herself aloud. “Don’t be childish, Elinor.”

            Dressing for the day was automatic. It took no time or thought to put on her layers and tie up her hair, tugging on her boots before locking her chamber door behind her and going to fetch the Inquisitor’s tray. There was nothing difficult in it. It was routine and routine was comforting. But routine didn’t include the taste of him on her lips or the feelings of his arms around her waist.

            At least, it didn’t anymore.

            But it did once again?

            She tried to shake it off, making her usual path through the halls down to the kitchens to fetch breakfast and tea for Evie. Mindless motions. Just walking straight ahead.

            Walking straight ahead, directly into Branson Rutherford.

            The sound she made was something akin to a loud squeak or a yelp. She had been moving with her eyes on the carpet and hands clasped in front of her, clearly not paying enough attention to what was in front of her, and walked directly into him so much that her nose almost bumped into his chest when they collided.

            “Good morning,” he hummed, looking down on her with intent amusement.

            “Morning,” she mumbled back, starting to move past him.

            “Running a little late this morning?” She could hear his grin without looking up, pulling at either end of the sentence and stretching it into a teasing knot.

            “Not at all. Her Worship isn’t wanted in the War Room until midday.”

            “But what about her guests for breakfast?”

            “Guests?” Ellie’s head shot up. Evie hadn’t said anything about guests in her chambers. Lady Montilyet would have given her a menu two weeks in advance if it were a visitor. Any one of Evie’s companions would have left a request with her for tea or some particular favourite food.

            “Don’t worry,” Bran’s smile was positively splitting his face in half. “Cullen has the trays."

            “Cullen has—?” She resembled nothing more or less than a gaping fish when the door to the main kitchen kicked open and Cullen was balancing two rather fully loaded trays, one in each hand.

            “A little help?” He grumbled at his brother.

            Ellie rushed forward, taking the heavier of the two trays out of his arms immediately. “Commander, I apologize,” she said it just loudly and reverently enough that the kitchen maids could hear her. “I was not informed you would be taking breakfast with the Inquisitor.”

            “Of course you weren’t,” Cullen smiled affectionately, as though he were having some sort of quiet, angelic moment of happiness. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

            “A surprise, ser?”

            “For you,” he started to walk down the hall, back the way she had come not a minute before. “An actual breakfast. Actual relaxation in the morning. Time to enjoy the beginning of your day.” He threw an exasperated look over his shoulder. “That means taking the tray from her, Branson.”

            “Right!” Bran leapt forward, removing the tray from Ellie’s grip while she was still confused.

            “Commander, I really must protest—” She went darting down the hall after them, cursing the fact that their legs were long enough that it took her twice as many steps to get to them.

            “Ellie, as Commander of the Inquisition, I am kindly ordering you to take the morning off and relax with us.” Cullen smiled again, very gently. “There. Now you can’t get out of it.”

            The journey up the stairs, through the main hall, and into the Inquisitor’s tower was like a march to the gallows. The Commander was bound to attract attention as it was, but being dressed down in a linen shirt and leather trousers only made him stick out more. The occupants of Skyhold never saw him in less than full regalia. Bran was just behind her with the second tray, dressed nearly identically to his brother and humming merrily as they went. If she weren’t so impossibly bothered by the hundred or so pairs of judgmental eyes that were currently falling on them, she might have enjoyed this. The prospect of spending a few hours out of sight – in a situation where it was acceptable for her to be in a private setting with Bran – seemed impossibly alluring. But as it was, they were staring. They saw. They all saw the unworthy girl walking between the two powerful men and her blood was running cold at the very thought of it. All it would take was one gossip to see Bran take one step too close. All it would take was one whisper.

            It wasn’t until she was locking the tower door behind them that she realized she had been holding her breath.

            “Alright, El?” Bran asked, stopping beside her at the bottom of the long stairwell.

            “You should have told me.” She was scowling at him, halfway between boxing his ears and throwing her arms around his neck. Unsure as to which reaction might win, she simply stood there lamely.

            “It was a surprise, love. How could I have told you?”

            “You know I don’t like surprises.”

            “Evie said—”

            “Bran, you should have told me.” She shook her head, forcibly removing the tray from his hands and starting up the stairs.

            The men followed through the open door to Evie’s quarters, leaving the second breakfast tray on the table by the bed where Ellie had laid the first. “She’s still asleep,” Ellie murmured, nodding backward towards the pile of pillows. “She sleeps like a golem. I’ll wake her up in a moment.” Ellie herself was kneeling in front of the fireplace rekindling last night’s embers to chase away the mountain chill.

            “I’ll do it,” Cullen offered, striding across the room before Ellie could object.

            Bran sat down beside her at the hearth, close enough to lay his hand on her back, rubbing small circles at its base. “I’m sorry,” he said, after a moment.

            “You—?”

            “You’re right,” he nodded solemnly. “We should have told you. Or I should have told you. I just thought you’d be glad to have a little time off, that’s all.”

            “It’s not that I’m not glad,” she set down the iron that was still in her hand and turned to face him. “I just like to be prepared. You know that.”

            Bran threaded his fingers through hers gently, almost as though he were afraid she might recoil at his touch. “I know.”

            “Will the two of you just kiss already? You’re far too solemn for being with friends.” Evie’s sleepy, cheery voice split through the tension in the room more easily than fire through ice. When they turned to look, she was sitting in a tangle of her own bedclothes, caught up in Cullen’s arms and enjoying every moment of it.

            “Was that an order, your Worship?” Bran asked, breaking out into a grin.

            Evie looked confused for a moment, sleep still clouding her mind, but in just another moment she grinned back at him. “Yes, Master Rutherford. Yes, it was.”

            “You heard the woman,” Bran turned back to Ellie, still grinning, but it had gone lopsided.

            She meant for it to be simple. This room – these people – were safe. She _could_ kiss him here. Could laugh with him and be caught up in the moment. As long as she could forget that two dozen people had watched the three of them walk into the Inquisitor’s tower together, she could feel protected. As long as she could think of this as simply a moment between friends, she was fine. And she was in the middle of reminding herself of all of these things when Bran cupped her cheek and kissed her very gently.

            A short press of lips that garnered a second and a third. The memory – the dream – was so fresh in her mind that it felt like molding her subconscious and conscious together into a bizarre waking trance that was fogging her mind. The room around them melted away bit by bit, leaving them alone together – her pressed against him so tightly that she might simply fall through the floor if he let go.

            “A proper good morning,” she whispered, when they remembered that air was essential to living.

            “I love you, too,” he teased, ducking to kiss her cheek affectionately.

            “Well.” A voice from across the room added. “That was far better than I expected.” Evie was positively giggling in Cullen’s arms.

            Ordinarily being seen in such a state would have been mortifying. The last few years had taught her to be cautious with her affection. A childhood of being taught to do her duty had made her hyper aware of everything that she was currently doing wrong. But this – here, now – felt undeniably right. The reality of the thing almost smothered the nagging ache in the pit of her stomach: the pinch of worry that could never truly be banished.

            “I got a little carried away, I suppose.” She admitted, blushing like mad. _Shamefully_ carried away was what she had been. But for a moment she had forgotten to care.

            “Come!” Evie bounded forward on her bed, sitting smack in the middle of it. “I’ve cancelled the entire day. Josie is escorting everyone from Rivain, Cassandra is running drills, and you two,” she pointed toward the pair at the hearth. “Are taking a day to relax.”

            “We relaxed yesterday,” Ellie objected, rising up on to her feet.

            “Yesterday you spent your morning dressing and feeding Evie, your afternoon giving Bran a very public tour of the grounds, and then dressing Evie for a dinner where you subsequently spent three hours standing against a wall.” Cullen recited the activities of her day like a list a schoolchild might memorize. “That hardly counts as relaxing.”

            “We wanted,” Evie patted the bedclothes insistently, beckoning them forward, “to give you time away.” She giggled when Bran stood next to Ellie with his hand on the small of her back to keep her close. “You’re always so worried about being seen, Ellie. I thought some time with just us might be nice.”

            It _was_ nice. In fact, it was a gift. One that Ellie couldn’t see herself being deserving of; and she found herself dumbstruck by the kindness of the Rutherford family for not the first time in her life, and indeed consciously including Evie in that number.

            She let herself be guided toward the bed, felt Bran sit down next to her, and was chastised for trying to serve. Evelyn Mae Trevelyan – the Inquisitor herself – poured tea for the lot of them, handing out plates of warm bread and roasted meats after it. They sat (after coaxing Ellie out of the chair she had pulled up next to the great four posted bed) on the bedclothes together sharing stories and talking of nothing at all.

            Evie dared to tuck herself under Cullen’s protective arm and lay her head on his chest. He, in turn, left peppered kisses on her hair and temples. Bran and Ellie sat with their fingers knit together until he finally sweet-talked into very nearly sitting in his lap – a position that her full-skirted uniform dress prohibited.

            They sat in comfortable conversation while the sun rose outside the doors on Evie’s balcony, bathing them in coloured light as they laughed together. It was not just a possibility: Ellie was beyond certain that she hadn’t been this comfortable, this _happy_ , in years.

            Bran had just finishing telling Cullen a decade-old story about their youngest sister and her reputation around South Reach for mischievousness and skinned knees when Evie leaned into Cullen’s chest and sighed, still grinning. “When will you two get married?” She wanted to know. “I’ve never had children to play with…a baby around Skyhold would make everything happier.”

            “What?” Ellie froze next to Bran.

            “A baby,” Evie repeated, as cheerily as could be. “A little niece or nephew. Or a niece _and_ a nephew!” She’d gone almost dreamy at the thought. “You’d make a wonderful mother, I think. Wouldn’t she?”

            It was unclear which of the men Evie was addressing, but Cullen replied in the affirmative almost immediately, teasing his brother about how daunting it would be to live up to such a spouse.

            Ellie and Bran shrank from each other measurably.

            “Bran?” Cullen’s brow furrowed immediately, on the verge of reaching forward to reach his brother’s shoulder.

            “Not feeling well all of a sudden,” Branson muttered, keeping out of Cullen’s reach.

            Ellie had slipped off the bed in the time it took to blink, and was now piling their dirty dishes back onto the trays they had brought up hours ago: so absorbed in the task that she barely noticed Evie come up next to her, touching her on the elbow gently. “Did we say something wrong?”

            “I should bring these back to the kitchens,” was all Ellie could say.

            “I can do it later,” Evie offered, trying her best to get Ellie to look at her. “If you tell me what we’ve done wrong, maybe we can fix it?” The harder she tried, the more Ellie turned away. The more the voice in Ellie’s head turned over, and over, and over.

            A mother. They had been so sure it would be a boy that they’d already chosen a name. She was supposed to be a mother. She’d cried over it in her sleep and woken up calling out. For Bran. For the baby. For mercy. She was never meant to be a mother. The knowledge was her own personal ghost. The whisper that followed her everywhere.

            “I have to go.” She bolted for the stairs, wishing as loudly as she could that perhaps she might trip on the hem of her dress and fall on her way to the bottom. It would be preferable to the hollowness that was currently eating her alive.

            “Ellie!” She _had_ tripped: fallen two steps unto her knees at the very bottom of the stairwell outside of her quarters. “El—”

            “No,” she moved her arm out of range of his hand.

            “El, if we don’t talk about it, we’ll…” He didn’t cry often. Not that she had seen. When she’d seen Bran cry it had always had to do with the baby. The day she’d told him he’d wept: joy and fear in equal measure. The months after losing him, Bran had been inconsolable in ways no one could seem to reach – not even her. Especially not her.

            He wouldn’t let her in, and she ran from him at every turn.

            Right here, on the stone floor outside her quarters in the Inquisitor’s tower, Bran said possibly the most pragmatic thing he’d said it years. At least, he’d started to say it.

_If they didn’t talk about it, they’d never be able to move on._

            She nodded through sheets of tears, body numb from the fear and regret that always associated itself with any mention of family, and pulled herself to her feet using the uneven stones in the wall beside her. “You’d better come inside then,” she said, leaving her door open as she went inside.


End file.
